


all these in me, no means can move

by aw marvel no (getoffmysheets)



Series: all the pleasures prove [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: But SO FUCKING FLUFFY, Clint Barton Doesn't Need Your Hypermasculine Bullshit, Clint Barton-centric, Clint and Natasha are the Best Bros, Deaf Clint Barton, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov-centric, Past Child Abuse, Protective Bucky Barnes, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Trust, kinda angsty in parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-04-04 01:46:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14009493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmysheets/pseuds/aw%20marvel%20no
Summary: Through the years, Natasha Romanov very reluctantly falls in love with Strike Team Delta and in doing so, gains a family. Clint and Bucky know that real trust takes affection and patience and they aren’t squeamish about either.





	1. J.B. Barnes vs Cynicism

**Author's Note:**

> This won't make much sense if you haven't read "to live with thee", but as it's a prequel, I suppose you could theoretically choose to read this first. It won't make as much sense and could spoil the plot for that story though.

James plops down beside her and joins her in watching the fire in silence for several long minutes. “I know you probably don’t mean to,” he says finally, chewing absently on a piece of Big Red from his pocket. “But you’re kinda fuckin’ this up, Natalia.”

 

She doesn’t want to answer him, but the words seem to tug at her chest, begging to be allowed out. Despite the fire, a chill travels down her spine. Natasha feels the urge to clamber into her bed, plead with him to bring her soup and a hot water bottle, and nurse her like a child. Her face feels hot – she would never ask for a such a thing, but she’s ashamed that she _wants to_. She comes up with something that sounds a little more adult.

 

“Barton can fight his own battles.”

 

“He can. And so can you,” James agrees mildly. “Luckily, I hadn’t planned on fighting any battles today.”

 

The kindness didn’t help her, left her on edge. “Then what, exactly, are you trying to accomplish?”

 

“I’m just trying to figure out your goal here,” he says, feeding more sticks to the fire. “If your goal is get Clint so discombobulated he can hardly see straight, you can congratulate yourself on a job well done. If you’re trying to get yourself kicked off my team-” Her heart lurches, and she swallows hard. “-then you need to try a lot harder. If you’re trying to prove to yourself that you’re the one in control of this, I gotta tell ya…that’s pretty unnecessary.”

 

“What if I’m trying to find your inner assholes?” Natasha asks, finding the energy for a sneer, but only just.

 

“You really don’t gotta look too hard,” he answers, brows furrowed. “It’s not so much ‘inner’ as ‘outer’ around here.”

 

Her fists clinch and Natasha reminds herself that hitting him won’t do her any good and he may even hit her back. She does bare her teeth at him. “Don’t play dumb, none of that is real. You just tease each other for fun. I’m talking about the _dark_ stuff.”

 

“I see.”

 

His resumed silence makes her wish again that she could hit him. He chews his gum – typical American she thinks, rolling her eyes before remembering that James was actually born in Romania, even if he talks like someone who should be running a magazine stand somewhere near Central Park.

 

“You probably aren’t gonna believe me, because ya got good reasons not to, but I promise that there isn’t some kind of sinister trap going on around here.” James says, idly scratching the back of his head.

 

Natasha snorts and doesn’t bother to grace that ridiculous notion with any kind of response.

 

James seems to mull that over for a moment before giving a short nod. “Yeah, y’know what, you’re right – there is something we want. Or at least something _I_ want, and I feel pretty comfortable about including Clint in that.”

 

They stare at each other in the darkness, James’ eyes two pinpricks of firelight, and Natasha waits for him to drop the bomb.

 

James sighs at her expression. “I want you to _belong_ , Natalia. Do you want to belong? Because this really isn’t going to work the way it should if you don’t.”

 

At her angry silence, he sighs again.

 

“I’m not saying I’d kick you off the team, but if you don’t really want to belong here, I’d recommend cutting this shit with Clint off right now.”

 

“Yes, I know, because I’m a _conflict of interest_ ,” she says, feigning boredom.

 

“ _Because_ ,” James says sharply “Clint isn’t like you, Natalia. He doesn’t know how to play tricks, doesn’t understand mind games. I think you could be really good together – but not if you treat this like a game you can win. His ex-wife already tried that and has the restraining order to prove it. Just think about it, please. Consider it a piece of tactical advice.” He gets up and brushes the dirt from his pants. “You could always just ask us about ‘the dark stuff’, you know.”

 

She wants to punch him on his dimpled chin as he walks off.

 

 _Do I want to belong?_ Natasha seethes. _Of course I want to belong. I’ve spent my whole life wanting something that felt permanent. Wanting something permanent that didn’t feel so sinister._

 

In Russia, she was an orphan at age three, and eventually adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Alexsandr Lukin. She has no memories of her biological family, just a lot of meals in their gigantic house where she would sit by herself, surrounded by servants and silence. Hours of ballet practice under Mrs. Lukin’s critical eyes, until her shoulders ached, and her feet went numb.

 

The Lukin’s house was a mansion in St. Petersburg – ancient, cold, and hollow on the inside. By seven, she knew better than to speak to an adult unless she was asked a question directly, did not dare slouch or skip or run or scream or cry or any of things a little girl should be able to do. She was there to be a display piece, a pretty china doll that walked and talked and danced for them.

 

These were all exhausting and worked toward breaking her spirit, but she could’ve bore them in the end, if Mr. Lukin hadn’t realized how beautiful his adopted daughter had become. She was tiny, pale, and graceful, with a vibrant curl of hair red as fresh blood on fallen snow. And she was only thirteen years old.

 

Natalia was young and scared, and she didn’t understand what was happening to her. The worst part of it was never feeling like she could go to sleep, because she was constantly in fear that she would wake in the middle of the night to find Alexsandr there in the room with her.

 

Natasha found contacts with gang members, snuck out of the house at fifteen. She was pretty, and clever, and now she knew what men wanted when they talked to her and told her how lovely her hair, her eyes, her face were. She got out of St. Petersburg as fast as she could, picking up skills here and there about fighting, languages, living away from the pampered sterile house she grew up in.

 

But money was still pretty hard to come by, and nowhere she went ever seemed to feel like a home. SHIELD had seemed like the perfect solution to all her problems at the time. Truthfully, she’d expected to become a solo agent. SHIELD had professional psychologists on staff and she knew what her evaluations probably looked like.

 

May had been almost comforting. She didn’t mix words, merely gave orders and waited for Natasha to follow through, assessing her with a cool stare as she did so. Coulson was…nice, but she was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop around him. In her world ‘a good man’ was an oxymoron, and she didn’t like the way he stared at her, as if Coulson could see what was wrong with her and pitied her for it.

 

She nearly backed out when they gave her the new team assignment – Barnes and Barton. “Welcome to the frat party,” May had said dryly. “I know these idiots don’t look it, but they actually are highly competent.”

 

Natasha would rather slit her throat than admit she was afraid and she wasn’t. No, she was absolutely petrified.

 

 _(“No funny shit, man,” Bucky had told Clint. “This is my Serious Face right now. I don’t want any jokes, pranks, or shenanigans. She is very not up for that, and if she skins you like a prize pig, I’m not saving your ass.”_ )

 

That first day she couldn’t eat, barely slept. “We aren’t like Coulson’s team,” Clint told her, as she looked out the window into the Finnish wilderness. “We don’t have a bus, because we’re not one of Fury’s golden boys, so our base of operations is wherever our current assignment is.”

 

“It’s an endless fucking camping trip, basically,” James had summarized. “Punctuated by occasional hotels with actual running water, and very rarely, nice room service and free bathrobes. Congratulations, you’ve signed up to be on the vacation from hell on a semi-permanent basis.”

 

“Whatever car we have is always loaded with our basic gear and supplies in case we actually do end up have to camp out where we end up,” Clint added.

 

It _was_ like a hiking trip out in the woods and Natasha spent the whole time strung out on the edge of her nerves. They all slept in the same three-room tent, with her on one side and the two men on the other. She listened to every little sound, every little noise sending her senses on high alert, rigid and sweating in her bed roll despite the forty-degree weather. They could do anything to her out there and no one would ever know – no one would even care.

 

But when she went to bed, James and Clint stayed up playing cards till after midnight, before they both dragged themselves to bed and stayed there. She never even heard them get up to go to the bathroom – an area on a downhill slope several meters from the fire. Past three a.m. she heard Clint kicking James awake with a hissed “Stop snoring in my fucking ear, you goddamn grizzly bear!”

 

“Then stop cuddling up to me, you dumbass. My mouth wasn’t beside your ear when we fell asleep!”

 

She felt like she could barely breathe the whole time, but they made contact with their source, checked up on their informant, and Natasha made it back to the car without diving head-first into a panic attack or having either of her teammates make unwanted advances with her.

 

Damn James! She wants to belong, damn it, but everywhere she goes seems like the wrong way…

 

But he wants her to belong _here_. Not here in this forest in Alberta, but with him. With them.

 

The thought sends her into a freefall of terror and uncertainty. She hugs her knees and stares up at the stars to think.

 

To fit in with them would mean that she must trust, and be trusted in return, and she can admit, quietly, to herself, that she hasn’t the slight idea of how to do that. Perhaps the urge to beg James to take care of her is the beginnings of that. But she can’t imagine doing anything of the kind. Men are wolves, wolves smell blood, and Natasha feels like she’s bleeding all the time.

 

_But these wolves howl at anything that comes close enough to hurt me. Maybe I’m still prey but here they circle me and keep other predators away._

 

She turns her chin down to hide her face in her knees.

 

James said that he (and Clint) _want_ her with them. Natasha has never, ever been wanted. _Valued._ She’s been desired, coveted, envied, even needed on a few rare occasions. But she’s never been wanted, simply as herself. There are people who wanted her body or her skills, but not her, as herself. Never just Natasha.

 

If she gambles on this, and they break her, there may not be enough pieces of her left to pick up again.

 

On the other hand, she’s not sure that living her life this way has made it a life _worth_ living. She is a good agent, always calm and collected and ruthless, but she spends her days in a state of constant anxiety that she hides from her teammates, feels herself forever on the edge of her next panic attack and she doesn’t know how to ease off from the edge, except to push it back and back and back. And…she does like Clint, a lot. She can see that he is funny and kind, and bizarrely charming in his own way. Her memories don’t hold a lot of laughter, but he makes her want to, all the time.

 

She doesn’t know how this is going to go, but she does want to stay.

 

To _try._


	2. i'd close my eyes (but i'm afraid of the dark)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh...let me know if I need to increase the rating?
> 
> Also, this doesn't detail any of Natasha's past abuse, but it does show her having some pretty awful ways she copes with it.

It’s the third time.

 

It’s the third time and it’s all her own fault because James is right, she can’t treat this like a game, but Natasha doesn’t know how else to deal with the way she feels about Clint. So, she falls in and out of bed with him, easy as changing her clothes. She doesn’t mean to disregard James' good advice, but she doesn’t have enough emotional knowledge to navigate this and neither, as it turns out, does Clint.

 

It wouldn’t be such a big deal, even with those feelings, but she doesn’t have way to contextualize the way her body responds. In her past, sex was either an unfortunate obligation or a tool to be used, unpleasant but in some ways necessary.

 

Natasha didn’t know that it could be good. That it was in fact, _supposed_ to be good. She’d heard stories, obviously, about sex so good it could make you lose all sense of time and place, but Natasha was jaded early and wrote it off as some kind of old wives’ tale.

 

She did sort of goad Clint into it both the first and the second times and was pleasantly surprised by how nice it was. ‘Nice’. Clint will forgive her for that later, big green eyes staring into her own, because he wanted to give her something more than ‘nice’. ( _ **“You wanted to be close to me, and I could’ve said no, Tasha. But I didn’t, because I wanted that, too.”**_ )

 

But the third time...

 

Natasha wonders what inspired him to do it. Or if perhaps, he’d wanted to do it the whole time and just thought that was the right moment to bring it up.

 

Nothing about Clint reminds her of Alexsandr and…and that’s what bothers her the most. Because she’s certain if he had, she could’ve made herself breathe through it, made herself endure the squirming sickness in her stomach, her panicked sweating and dizziness.

 

The first touch of his mouth over her cotton panties makes her wriggle – it’s an odd sensation, almost ticklish, but more pleasant and more discomforting at the same time. She’s performed oral sex before, but never had it done to her until just then and Clint…Clint eithers enjoys the effort, or he’s had a lot of practice. Possibly both because just like archery, he’s found a way to turn his skill into an art.

 

It’s incredible, and she can’t breathe. Feels herself losing control, quaking from knees to shoulders. Natasha experiences the terrifying sensation of floating outside her body, not disassociating – as many times as she wished she could, she’d never quite managed that – but the sensation that she is utterly and completely falling apart. That the pieces of herself carefully sewn together could shatter apart, fling themselves to the far corners of the universe, and she’ll be left in ruins.

 

She’s never experienced an orgasm, and the way it’s described isn’t anything like the way she feels. She’d heard it was incredible, pleasurable, euphoric. No one told her that getting there could feel like unmaking herself.

 

“Stop! STOP!”

 

Clint realizes Natasha is crying, though she doesn’t make any noise, and says “Oh, shit. Shit. Oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Tasha. Did I hurt you?”

 

She shakes her head frantically, hand covering her mouth. Her insides are liquid, aching, body yearning to clench around a heaviness that isn’t there, but now her terror is starting to override that awful sensation of slipping away.

 

He leans forward, thinking to pull her into a hug and Natasha flinches, squeezes her eyes closed, fat droplets welling beneath the lids, and Clint’s stomach is suddenly filled with maggots. Worms. Gross crawling things that make him want to heave. “I’m so sorry, Tasha. I won’t touch you, just stay here so I can get Bucky.”

 

Natasha rocks – forward, back, but she can’t stay there. Her breasts feel heavy, and her crotch feels tight and she can’t make herself stop crying like a little child, even though she also can’t identify anything Clint did wrong. James will tell her that, won’t he? Clint didn’t do anything wrong and her body demands that Natasha call him back and let him take her. Maybe if she can stop, she can coax him back with kisses and whispered promises of her touch. If she can have him inside her, maybe it will make this terrible ache within her go away.

 

She hates it and cries harder for the discomfort of it.

 

**_(“It’s called a ruined orgasm, baby. And you’ll never have another one as long as I can help it.”)_ **

 

They’re in the Ukraine and it’s January, but she runs out into the snow without her proper coat or hat, and her shaking has nothing to do with the cold. She doesn’t know if she’s going to bring Clint back or if she's merely running away from her shame to hide, but James finds her anyway.

 

She’s pacing on a shoveled path beside a snow bank, face gone bloodless with terror, and shivering. She’d thought she’d stopped crying ages ago, but James hands over her coat and then pulls a cotton handkerchief from his own coat pocket.

 

His voice is quiet amid the howling of the wind. “Do you want to transfer out, Natalia? I’ll make it happen, I promise I’ll find someone good for you. They’ll take good care of you, I’ll vet them myself.”

 

She sobs, face buried in the cloth, even as she finds herself clinging to his jacket. “D-don’t send me away!”

 

Carefully, he slips his arms around her. James seems solid. Permanent, in the way that she’s craved. Clint seems like that, too, though in a different way. “ _Devochka_ , little girl, I’m never going to send you away,” he whispers into the crown of her hair. “But I won’t let you stay if you think you need to…god, I don’t even know. Perform…for us…? I can’t let you stay here if you don’t feel safe, baby girl.”

 

“I do.” Natasha grinds her teeth, tries to make herself just fucking stop with the tears so she can look up at him with some dignity. Just ends up crying harder, clinging tighter, and James doesn’t let go. “I don’t f-f-feel sa-a-afe any-anyw-w-where else.”

 

It's as close to truth as she's ever known, as close to home as she's ever been.

 

They're the hiccuping, hysterical tears of someone who can’t breathe past their crying, so James rocks her, like she really is a little girl, and he, a six-foot-tall man who needs a haircut, is her doting mother. “Shhh, shhh, _devochka_ , I’m here, baby, you’re okay. Just breathe for me.”

 

It takes several long moments for her to properly calm down, and James doesn’t let go of her the whole time. “Tell me what happened, little girl. Clint says you didn’t want him to…?”

 

Natasha tells him the whole story with her face tucked into his warm blue jacket. “…and I don’t-I don’t know what happened. It was awful, James, like I was going to-to lose control of myself.”

 

He’s silent again, which by now she knows is the thoughtfulness of someone considering the situation in front of them carefully. “Do you – do you know about Alexsandr?”

 

“Is that your father – adoptive father?” he asks, correcting himself instantly.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I have to see your personnel file, so yes. I was told about Alexsandr. That he was…inappropriate with you.”

 

She curls in on herself, clutches his lapels tightly. “Do you know the worst part? Clint doesn’t remind me of him at all. Nothing he does reminds of that man. And I-if he did, I could’ve just…just made myself close my eyes and get through it. But I _can’t_ , and I don’t know why.”

 

“Don’t,” he says sharply, taking her small face gently between his two large hands. “Don’t ever do that, _devochka_. I know that what happened tonight was terrifying, but don’t ever let yourself just lay back and endure it, baby.”

 

His thumbs are rough on her face where he wipes the fresh stream of tears. “Clint wanted you to have something – a gift, let’s say. But that doesn’t mean you need to accept it. You aren’t obligated, and I promise he’d rather hear ‘no thank you’ a hundred times than just once think you’ve taken something you didn’t want. Do you understand, Natalia?”

 

She nods, finally collecting herself. “I have to talk to him now, don’t I?”

 

“Yes, _devochka_ , I’m afraid you do.”

 

Natasha rolls her eyes. “I’m not your little girl, James.”

 

To her surprise, James leans over presses a fierce kiss to her temple, straightening her hair a bit fussily. “Until someone comes to fight me for the honor? Hell yes, you are. Clint calls me ‘Mama Bear’. Better get used to it.”


	3. love and light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is going to deal with Natasha communicating some pieces of her past abuse with Clint (and Bucky, more indirectly), including childhood sexual abuse, and there will also be some descriptions of spousal abuse and domestic violence (female-on-male).
> 
> This all sounds very dark but I think it's a cute chapter, so...

 Clint is so disturbed that he doesn’t really remember to talk. Instead he bursts into the cabin Bucky set himself up in and begins signing frantically. //You need to talk to her!// he says, hand movements jerky with agitation. //Mama Bear, help!//

 

“What happened?” Bucky asks, speaking and signing at the same time. He sits up from where he’d been lounging on the bed, skimming through a Tom Clancy novel while half asleep. “Clint? Slow down! Slower! I can’t understand you when you talk that fast!”

 

//She-she said she wanted to-but, but then, she started crying, Mama Bear!// Clint says, looking panicked. //She said I didn’t hurt her, but she wouldn’t let me touch her and I’ve-I’ve done something wrong…I don’t even know…//

 

“Calm down, calm down, and start from the beginning. What _exactly_ did you do?”

 

//I…well, I went down on her// he says, with a somewhat sheepish expression. //And she was getting tenser and tenser, and I thought, you know…//

 

“That she was close,” Bucky guesses, eyebrows raised, and Clint nods. “Okay…then what happened?”

 

//She yelled and begged me to stop, and Mama Bear, she was crying!! Just _sobbing_ , but she didn’t make a sound! So, I asked if I’d hurt her but she said ‘no’. Then I tried to touch her, but she…// Clint lets his hands flop down at his sides, feeling desperately helpless and stupid.

 

Does Natasha’s history make her feel she has to give them sexual gratification to keep them happy with her? That she must make herself available to their needs despite her own deep-seated fear? “Shit,” he mutters. “This was exactly what May was afraid of.”

 

//Are you going to send one of us away?// Clint looks unhappy, but resigned. Defeated.

 

Bucky hates that expression, but he cannot lie to him. “It would be her,” he says quietly. “I’ll go talk to her, but no matter what I decide on, it won’t be you.”

 

//You’d punish her for saying no to me?!//

 

“No, never. I’m not going to punish her for anything. But I think it may be in the best interest of her personal safety to be transferred to a different team.”

 

Clint makes a sign with both hands, jerking them in opposite directions, pulling inwards with the right hand while snatching outwards with his left. It’s violent motion, meant to convey it’s meaning. Normally they would both use a calmer sign for the term, one more suitable for a mission discussion or legal case, but he clearly isn’t thinking objectively right now.

 

//Rape?//

 

Plenty of people think Clint is stupid, but the truth is, he’s usually so focused on the bigger picture that while he misses the little things, he often has a clearer understanding of a situation than most people give him credit for. It’s a terrible question, and one Bucky doesn’t want to answer. Clint already looks devastated.

 

Bucky doesn’t speak his answer out loud, throat too tight.

 

//Yes// is a knocking motion with the fist and it makes Clint whirl away from him, scrubbing his hands over his face as he paces the small interior of the cabin.

 

//I want a name, Mama Bear!// he begs Bucky. //Give me a name! They’ll never find him – I won’t tell you what I’ve done, no one will ever know! They’ll never even see me!//

 

“You know I can’t do that. I’ve violated her privacy telling you this much,” Bucky sighs. “If she hadn’t already gone this far with you, I never would have.”

 

Clint growls as Bucky walks out the door to find Natasha. It absolutely kills him that he left her there by herself, but he didn’t want to stay in such a small space when he’d already upset her and couldn’t figure out why.

 

He’s done that before.

 

Sheila was always angry with him and he couldn’t figure out why.

\---

Clint feels sick to his stomach and can’t go to sleep, even though he finally turns off the light and curls up on the bed, slipping his hearing aids out and dropping them onto the nightstand.

 

Sometime after eleven o’clock, Bucky finally returns with Natasha behind him. She’s pale and her eyes are red-rimmed, but she looks better than she did. Bucky turns the light back on and sits on the other bed, gesturing for her to sit beside him. “I’ve made a decision,” he says calmly. “Natasha will not be leaving, but she does need to talk to you. She would like me to help her, if that’s okay?”

 

Clint, squinting as he tries to read his lips, signs //Repeat?//

 

Bucky dutifully repeats it, talking for Natasha and signing for Clint.

 

//Yes, please. Whatever she wants// he replies.

 

“Take it easy,” Bucky says gently, because Natasha isn’t the only one of them with skeletons Bucky lets hide in their closets. “Just listen for now.”

 

Natasha murmurs, too quiet and subdued for him to attempt reading her.

 

“Natasha was adopted when she was still a toddler. Her adoptive parents were very distant, very cold, but they were also rich and influential, so she had a comfortable life. Around when she hit puberty, her adoptive father began…” He pauses and checks Natasha’s expression. She nods but won’t meet their eyes. “He began coming into her room at night after her adoptive mother had gone to bed.”

 

No. No, no, no, no. His stomach is clenching hard. He didn’t have dinner and he’s glad now. Natasha’s gaze is directed at her lap.

 

(She is wondering if he thinks of her as dirty, soiled somehow. She doesn’t believe it’s the right way of thinking, exactly, but if he does she can’t stay here.)

 

Clint sits up straight in the bed, making the clawed, pulling motion with both hands again. The way Bucky grimaces at the violent gesture is all the answer he needs. He clenches his fists. Natasha probably doesn’t want him to touch her, after what happened, but all he wants is to pat her all over, check her everywhere for pain, find something that hurts so he can fix it.

 

//How old? Jesus, how long, Bucky?//

 

“Between the ages of thirteen and fifteen, when she could finally run away.”

 

Clint looks at Natasha, anger and sadness caught inside, a struggle to the death. He touches both shoulders with his fingertips and pulls them away, tightening both hands into fists.

 

“Brave.”

 

She looks at Bucky strangely. “What?”

 

Clint repeats the motion, emphatically. “He says you’re really brave, Natasha.”

 

And then, Clint signs more. Bucky dips his head in agreement. “He wants to tell you his ‘dark stuff’. Some of it, anyway. If you'd like to hear it.”

 

She searches their faces, which are unusually solemn, unsure what to expect. “Okay.”

 

Clint signs, and Bucky talks.

 

He never knew what he’d done when she hit him, never could figure out what he could do to make it better. By the time Sheila gave him a black eye and broke his wrist, he did start thinking it wasn’t him.

 

The police didn’t take it very seriously – he wasn’t a small man, and with his military history and combat training, nobody believed that his five-six, one-hundred-and-forty-pound wife could actually beat him around.

 

But fear was stronger than any man could ever be.

 

It didn’t help that every time the cops showed up, Sheila was crying hysterically and pleading with them not to take him away, and Clint was always covered in bruises and woodenly staring off into space – having usually elected to remove his hearing aids hours before to shut out her screaming verbal abuse at him.

 

They didn’t take it very seriously, until she stabbed him through the arm with a kitchen knife. They took her away, still crying that she was defending herself – but Sheila didn’t have any bruises and the ancient Chinese grandmother across the hall had heard her howling every name in the book at him. He filed for a restraining order, and then for a divorce.

 

Any money he had she could keep, he told the judge. He just wanted to sleep in a quiet house again. Even Sheila’s lawyer looked like she felt sorry for him.

 

The judge had said, almost pleading with him “Mr. Barton, as baffling as this case sounds on paper, I believe your claims about Mrs. Barton’s treatment of you to be perfectly true. The police reports alone could fill a book on domestic violence. Why did you stay with someone who treated you this way for over two years?”

 

Clint had gestured to his ex-wife. “Because I thought it had to be my fault.”

 

Plenty of good parents teach their little boy that it’s never okay to hit a girl – not many little boys are taught that it’s not okay for a girlfriend or wife to hit you.

 

Natasha listens, looking into his eyes. Clint always reminds her of a hedgehog, a bit, with his spiked messy hair and bright eyes. The way he curls around her when he’s inside her, keeping all her vulnerable parts hidden.

 

She doesn’t understand how someone could vow to be his wife, could look into those bright eyes, and put a knife through his arm.

 

She wonders if this is the love that people tell her about, if it’s supposed to be such a large, painful thing.

 

People describe it abstractly, like lightning and sunsets and fireworks.

 

Natasha thinks it’s quieter, this terribly painful love. Or maybe it’s just that _hers_ is.

 

Like bright eyes that look at her and don’t hide from his own pain or hers, like scarred hands and cups of coffee the way she likes it. A clean handkerchief when she needs it and a friend who is there to help her face her fears.  

\---

Bucky gently suggested that the sensation of pleasure might be more bearable if Natasha could feel like she was also doing something instead of simply having something done _to_ her. Clint begins teaching her to sign and tells her to use it all the time. Sign is a physical language, requiring gestures and movement to communicate. He _wants_ her to talk to him, wants Natasha to tell him before she feels herself breaking.

 

She talks to someone in the psychology department, and when she asks him, he joins her.

 

The sign name Clint gave Bucky are the signs for ‘bear’ and ‘sleep’. At first, Bucky thought this was because bears hibernate and he is grouchy when he wakes up, but Clint told him the intended meaning was because they always sleep together, not necessarily in the same bed, but always in the same location, or in the same room at the very least. Wherever they slept was always the safest place they could find.

 

They didn’t have a base of operations, a home base. Instead, Bucky was the walking, talking embodiment of safety for Clint, the one person he’d found that he could always go home to. Bad or good, happy or sad, he knew he’d go to sleep beside Bucky every night.

 

Bucky was his talisman, a symbol of protection.

 

 

Clint can look at him, and be reminded of comfort, home, shelter, food. Now he can look at her, too, and see those same things in Natasha. All the good things in life are with them. Natasha's first sign name he gave when she joined them was 'power-beautiful', and now the one he regularly uses is 'brave-beautiful'. 

 

They try again, more carefully this time.

 

Natasha’s face tips to the ceiling, her hand circling her heart – ‘please’. Her delicate hands form the ‘s’ motion, and drawing the string of a bow across his back – ‘Clint’, and knocking on his left shoulder – ‘yes’.

 

And again. //Clint//. //Yes//.

 

Then just… //yes, yes, yes//.

 

//Clint//.

 

It isn’t the sex he wants to give her – although god knows, he loves giving her that.

 

He wants her to have that same talisman, too. To feel that same protection in Clint and Bucky. To _know_ it, with certainty.

 

He wants her to see their faces and be reminded of all the good things in life – shelter, comfort, food. Pleasure, and laughter, and light. To have that feeling she can carry with her, and feel anew every time they're by her side.

 

She’s flushed and pretty when he slides back up the bed, and the way she clings close makes him feel light-headed. Proud.

 

Her arms cross over his back, each hand forming a fist and tapping him gently.

 

//Love//

 

A bowstring formed across his shoulders, and arms crossed over his back.

 

//Clint// //Love//

 

He forms the ‘n’ sign and draws it down his throat, in a way that usually means ‘desire’, then folds his middle and ring finger down.

 

//Natasha, I love you//


	4. comfort and joy, part i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As you will see in this chapter, I'm not necessarily sticking to a linear pathway through this story - it's a more collection of little pieces then anything else. 
> 
> Brief discussion of childhood abuse by a parent and sibling death, as well as a short description of scars and injury.

 

The first time they are required to bathe together, she and Clint have only been together once, and she has been with Team Delta about three months.

 

They are in Peru and the area is highly unstable. Clint did find a place in a half-ruined hotel for them to spend the night with running water, but they all know that it isn’t safe for any of them of to be alone for longer than a quick bathroom break.

 

Natasha stares at a wall and listens to the sound of James undressing. A distant part of herself in filled with panic. _Clint will stop him if he attacks me,_ is her first thought. Her second is: _James will stop him if Clint attacks me._

 

She is instantly ashamed of both thoughts, aware that they are irrational and rooted in her own trauma. Nothing in Clint and James’ behavior thus far has suggested they would ever assault anyone, never mind a person they spend so much time actively protecting the way they do Natasha.

 

Her whole body is cold as she hears James turning the water on.

 

But he is clever, James is.

 

He’s told her that he will go first, so that at least one of them is always on guard. (So that Natasha doesn’t have both of them staring at her, looming over her while she is naked. Instead she only has Clint behind her.) She joins him in the tiled area immediately after he finishes scrubbing at his hair, and James is careful to keep out of arm’s reach – and not _her_ arm’s reach, either. He places the bottles of soap on a ledge rather than approaching to hand it to her, and never comes close enough to be within grabbing distance of her body.

 

She doesn’t stare – apart from her terror and vague embarrassment, it feels impolite to openly take in his nudity. But she can’t fail to notice the marks on the backs of James’ upper thighs and even a few along his lower back. Long thin stripes of scar tissue. Natasha has seen similar marks on the arms of a girl in Moscow who would cut herself, but James’ look much older.

 

This is Natasha’s first hint that James does indeed have ‘dark stuff’, just like her.

 

He’s only twenty-five, but the scars must be at least a decade old, and they aren’t in a place easily reached by oneself.

 

Neither of them is a fool, and of course James notices her noticing, but he does not comment on her observation.

 

Almost more disturbing is the behavior of their other teammate – she was sort of expecting Clint to crack dirty jokes with James, with maybe a little playful leering in her direction. Nothing too bawdy or explicit, just his usual tricks to lighten up the mood. Instead, he is eerily quiet and focused, methodically scanning their surroundings, pupils sharply narrowed with the aura of tension around him, his bow in one hand and an arrow prepared for the string.

 

As fierce as James looked, he is for the most part mild and courteous to anyone who is not actively being a pain in the ass. When he was required to kill, it was with satisfaction but no glee, swift and brutal and free of any great pain. A killer’s instinct for going for the jugular as quickly as possible.

 

Clint on the other hand, looks like a half-asleep high school dropout and acts like the class clown. But just like James, he has that same instinct for the kill, that same inclination to go straight for the weak spot and clamp his jaws down.

 

What frightens Natasha is that this is the first time she’s been able to see the evidence of its existence. James is an excellent sniper as well, but Clint prefers long distance combat exclusively. She is never around to watch him pull back the string and fire.

 

It took James longer than her to figure out, but she does eventually realize what brings this glimpse of his darker instincts out.

 

The vulnerability of his teammates, the scent of danger in the air while Bucky and Natasha are literally naked and defenseless makes Clint sort of fold into himself. It’s nothing like the duality of Bucky and Zima, but for a little while the happy joker is concealed and the ruthless archer rises up to meet the occasion. 

 

After a while, she is no longer disturbed.

 

James may protect on the ground, but Clint in the one who watches, who guards from above.

 

Natasha asks James what happened, quietly, as they are brushing their teeth. “Are you…is your back okay?”

 

He reassures her with a sad, crooked smile. “Yeah, Natasha. I’m okay.” She’s pleased, and then startled at her own pleasure when James drapes an arm across her shoulder, a brief squeeze of a hug. “Drinking doesn’t make anyone a nicer person, especially when they’re an asshole to begin with.”

 

“Your father?” she asks quietly, recalling the long painful moments of waiting in the darkness.

 

“Yeah. Up until the day I got out of that house, he hit me. My mom. My little sisters, too.”

 

“You have sisters?”

 

“I did. Three little sisters.” James’ throat closes up and he looks away. His pale eyes are wet and glossy looking. “Now I just have one. We don’t talk much.”

 

Natasha wants to ask what happened to them, but this isn’t a topic she wants to keep opening. The scars might be old, but as far as James is concerned, the wounds are clearly still fresh.

\---

The second time they are required to bathe together is a few weeks after that, and it’s because Clint needs her help getting James into the bath. Or, if you listen to Clint, they hold him down and force him to stop walking around with a gunshot wound long enough to wash up.

 

“It just gazed me, _ptichka_!” he insists. “I’m gonna be fine, it’ll stop bleeding soon.”

 

Clint looks grimly unconvinced and says “Natasha, do me a favor and go turn on the water in there. Barnes – you can take your pants off yourself or I can take them off for you, it’s your choice.”

 

Natasha turns and lets out a hiss of dismay as Clint and James come hobbling in, Clint holding him up as he limps along. A chunk of flesh is missing from his lower leg. It’s only a gaze in that somehow, it managed to avoid any bones or tendons, but it did rip away part of the muscles and a trail of blood oozes from it. More blood stains the skin of his leg and foot. They’ve been walking for nearly two miles since he was injured – the fool has just been bleeding into his boot the whole time.

 

Clint looks angry, pointing silently at the toilet seat so that James can sit down while Clint furiously yanks off his own clothes. “So, Natasha, you can finally see that Saint James over here actually does have some faults. Pig-headed stupidity is one of them. Twice, _kozel_ , I asked you _twice_ if we needed to stop, or at least slow down, and you said ‘oh, no, Barton, we’ll just put a bandage on it!’.”

 

James grumbles but is otherwise quiet and obedient.

 

It feels less scary this way, because the gruesomeness of James’ injury makes it impossible for her to hang onto the sense of anxiety and impending doom. And it’s almost amusing, the way that Clint frets over a man half a head taller than himself. James, somewhere between contrite and annoyed, submitting himself to being washed by the two of them. Natasha scrubs and rinses his hair while Clint holds him upright, doing a cursory wipe of his torso and his face, which is streaked with filth. James gets steadily grayer and whoozier the longer this goes on, until Clint snaps “Don’t you dare pass out now, you giant ox. You’ll crush me an’ Tasha.”

 

For all his snarling and snapping, Clint is gentle and cautious as he dries James off, putting him to bed with her assistance and wrapping up the injury to keep it sterile long enough for a medical extraction team to arrive.

 

“He’ll be alright, _ptichka_ ,” Natasha says softly.

 

Clint looks startled but gives her hand a tight squeeze and a weak half-smile. As they’re going to bed, she realizes that it’s the first time she used the nickname James gave him.

 

Birdie.

\---

It becomes, if not a thing that they seek out, then at least a regular enough event that it no longer causes anxiety. Around eights months, after she has told them what happened to her and has begun visits to the psychology department at SHIELD headquarters, Natasha finds it almost comforting.

 

If they are not in a warzone, Clint chatters aimlessly, constantly looking for new ways to make her laugh or crack a smile. James brings a steadiness, that she can almost feel, touch. A tangible sensation like, she thinks with a faint smile, a wall of coarse fur that she can reach out for when she no longer feels safe.

 

For the first time in her life, Natasha feels like she has something she can grab onto when the ground doesn’t feel solid beneath her.

 

Two somethings, even.


	5. comfort and joy, part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was longer than expected.

Eight months in. Christmastime.

 

She did not have any particular fondness or distaste for the holidays. Before she ran away, Christmas and New Year’s meant a reprieve from Alexsandr’s attention, but also being paraded around like a prize pony in front other rich snobs who thought that she was _just darling_ , a _perfect little angel_.

 

So, Natasha is neither filled with the holiday spirit nor is she a curmudgeonly Scrooge-type character. Clint, on the other hand, is strangely subdued.

 

He takes them all back to Brooklyn with him when they get their notice for leave – they’re a team, so when they get leave and time off, it’s always together. He has a decent-sized apartment in an old building in Bed-Stuy, and knows that like himself, Natasha and Bucky have no close family left, and their closest friends are agents on other teams like themselves.

 

So, he takes them back to crowded Brooklyn with him. It’s the holidays, and nobody should have to be alone if there’s another choice.

 

He and Bucky kind of have a routine for the holiday – he’s hoping to introduce Natasha into it (and hoping that she won’t find it too weird to participate) when his plans kind of go south.

 

He burns himself on the candles, shatters the bottle of champagne he picked out two months ago, and nearly floods the bathroom.

 

It’s not his fault. He’s just…he’s always kind of a mess after any time spent talking to his brother.

 

Barney is…Barney.

 

Barney phones Clint while drunk off his ass, he curses at him, he brings up terrible memories from their childhood that Clint spends most of his time trying to forget, and then Barney calls him a fuck up and hangs up.

 

You know. The usual.

 

Natasha is not used to seeing him so somber. Clumsy, yes, that’s a regular everyday state of being for Clint. But so thoroughly quiet and cheerless is completely out of character for him and she doesn’t know how to handle this.

 

James seems to know what’s wrong and how to fix it just by looking at him. “Come on. It’s bath time.” Clint nods silently and James glances back at her. “Are you coming with us?”

 

Until that moment day, joining the boys in the shower was an activity done only out of necessity. Before now, she had sort of assumed that they just did locker room style bragging or whatever it was men did to pretend that they were not naked in a room alone together. Apparently, this was not the case, not if James considered it a good fix for having to endure Barney.

 

“Yes,” she answers cautiously.

 

James smiles a bit too knowingly. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

 

“Yes,” Natasha says, a bit more decisively.

 

His smile gentles a little more. “You can be in charge of the drinks then – just bring whatever you feel like having now. Bring your robe too. You’re going to want to be comfortable for this. It might take hours.”

 

Now Natasha is less anxious and more puzzled. For what reason would it take hours for them to finish bathing? She was reasonably certain that wasn’t a strange euphemism for something, particularly since James doesn’t mix words. Neither does Clint. It’s one of their best qualities as far as she’s considered. He specifically told her she would want to be comfortable.

 

She knows what she feels like having now, but it isn’t necessarily something James and Clint would want…it feels like a trick or a trap and she forces herself to take a deep breath. He wouldn’t do that, and she knows it. Jane – Doctor Foster – has told her that it’s not unusual for someone with trust issues to feel like simple questions or requests are somehow loaded against her. She told Natasha to pause and question the feeling, examine and consider whether or not she was reading too much into a basic statement.

 

 _If they don’t like it_ , she tells herself firmly, _it’s easy enough for them to just go into the kitchen and get something else._

 

She boils water in a kettle she finds buried somewhere in the back of Clint’s cupboards and digs the tin out from her bag. Just cracking open the tin and breathing in its scent made her feel more relaxed. After the team took a short excursion to St. Petersburg, she was certain to pick some up – it was the only thing she missed from her childhood. It was rather appallingly expensive, but she didn’t really spend her salary on much. Mostly, Natasha bought trinkets for the boys or her favorite beauty products – any of the few things that wasn’t already included in her pay, like her phone or lodging at headquarters.

 

After pulling out the brewed leaves, she goes back into the bag and pulls out the box of shortbread she’d stuffed in it a week ago. It’s her favorite, too, but unlike the tin of tea, it’s not something she has to buy plane tickets to get. As a child there was a full tea service of polished silver, but there isn’t even a samovar here, so she has to make do. For a tray, a sheet pan. For tea cups, coffee mugs. The spoons didn’t match, and she ended up pouring milk and sugar into two other spare cups to serve as the creamer and sugar bowl.

 

 _Well, at least the shortbread has a plate, damn it_. _It’ll have to do, I guess._

\---

“I admit, I’m having second thoughts about this,” Clint mutters as Bucky drags the ottoman to the very edge of the bathtub. It's just long enough for two of them, thank god. When it’s Natasha’s turn, if she feels safe enough to get in with them sitting over her, one of them is going to have to sit on the floor. There’s no way that the poor old thing will hold the weight of two grown men.

 

Clint doesn’t doubt Bucky will volunteer to take the floor – he’s larger, taller, and tends to look more ominous when looming over someone like that. 

 

“She isn’t a child,” Bucky says, turning on the taps and then holding out books for him to pick between. “She has the power to decide if she can handle this or not. Even if she refuses, it’s good.”

 

“Good that she’s scared?” he says, glum. He's not feeling terribly optimistic right now. Clint points to one of the older titles and Bucky places the others on the toilet cistern, away from any splashing water.

 

“Good that she knows she is allowed to make her own choices,” he corrects. “And we will able to show her that there are no negative consequences to refusing. That we are _happy_ to have her say no when she can’t overcome the anxiety.”

 

Clint sighs. “I don’t know how you do this so well.”

 

“Practice,” he says simply.

 

“On yourself or a partner?”

 

“Both.” He stares into the swirling water as he adds the bath oil. “I had to talk about my father after joining SHIELD and I’ve had a couple of partners and friends in the past, who encountered people that were…less considerate than me. I didn’t want to make it worse, but I also wanted to do more than that, too. To…help.”

 

“Ah.” Clint starts chuckling, settling himself into the warm water. He’s had a shit day, so feels zero guilt about going first. “And I’d be one of those friends, I guess?”

 

“Yeah.” Bucky takes a wooden box from the towel shelf and takes out a cigarette of white paper, hand-rolled, and secures a match before lighting it carefully. “Does that bother you?”

 

Clint sighs again, this time breathing in the rich spiced scent of clove from the lit cigarette. It’s a strange habit Bucky picked up from Bobbi, and now Clint finds something comforting about the smell. Homey and familiar. “Nope. Dunno if it should. Too tired to think about it.”

 

“Don’t bother,” Bucky says affectionately. “You’ll hurt yourself.” He sits heavily on the ottoman, tucking his feet into the water beside Clint’s knees. “Where did we leave off, _ptichka_?”

 

“Act II, Scene I,” Clint says, eyelids already drooping, shifting lower in the water so that he can only breath through his nose.

 

Bucky shifts the cigarette to the corner of his mouth, flips open the book, glances at him and says slyly “ _How now spirit! Whither wander you?”_

\---

Whatever Natasha is expecting, this was not it.

 

Clint is submerged until his hearing aids are just barely out of the danger zone, half-asleep in the water and possibly in eminent peril of drowning, and James is perched on a covered stool, wrapped in a towel and smoking, his legs dangling in the water, reading from a very old looking paperback novel. A cracked shot glass on the lip of the tub serves as his makeshift ashtray, and Clint’s arm dangles lazily over the edge.

 

“ _Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, neglect me, lose me_ ,” James recites, in a slightly higher voice than his own. “ _Only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you_.”

 

James looks over his shoulder to notice her in the doorway and pats the seat beside him, without pausing in his reading. “ _Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit, for I am sick when I do look on thee_!” he hisses, scooting over as she hesitantly sets the makeshift tray over the sink. In the higher voice, he adds “ _And I am sick when I look not on you._ ”

 

A glimpse at the cover of the book allows her to discover what on earth he’s reading that is filled with such drama: _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_.

 

Bubble baths, smoking, and Shakespeare recitals.

 

She finds herself sitting down beside James in a daze. The bath water is piled with bubbles, so it’s slightly less awkward than she’d first assumed. James calmly continues reading, switching the cigarette to the opposite hand so that he’s no longer wafting the smoke in her face. To her surprise, it doesn’t have the reek of burning tar and tobacco. Instead the burning paper has a sweetly spicy smell, like baking cookies.

 

James is good at this, actually. His reading of Puck is wicked, even changing his expressions for the part. Natasha gets lost in the rhythms of the recitation, lulled by the rise and fall of his voice. Eventually she leans against him, wrapped up warm in her fuzzy black robe, surrounded by the scent of Christmas cookies, and he shifts his arm around her shoulders. Clint brings his hand up and lightly rubs at her ankle bone. _“Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve such scorn?”_

 

She doesn’t realize that she’s fallen into a nap until Clint drips water on her, and Natasha opens her eyes to see that the bathtub has been refilled with fresh hot water and more bubbles, James sitting among them with another freshly lit cigarette in his mouth, his feet propped up on the end. They were able to swap places so that she never noticed. Except that Clint’s hair is still dripping water.

 

Hugging her to him with one arm, he reads from the page, _“I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen, let her not hurt me! I was never…curst – I have no gift at all for sh-shrew…ishness. I am a right maid for my…cowardice. Let her not strike me!”_

 

She notices the hesitations and pauses in Clint’s reading, but he’s nearly as skillful as James. He doesn’t back down from the emotion of Helena and Hermia, putting more passion into their parts, though he doesn’t do Puck and the fairies quite as well as James did. Natasha wonders when they learned to read the Bard. He must notice her waking, because he pauses to glance over at her. “Hey sleepyhead,” he teases. “Weren’t we promised drinks?”

 

“Made tea,” she mumbles, stumbling off the ottoman. “Sugar?”

 

“Nah, I’ll take it straight.”

 

“James?”

 

“Yes, please. I don’t mind being the uncultured baboon,” James says languidly, blowing smoke at the ceiling.

 

“You just read Shakespeare like you were teaching a masters course. For fun,” she says dryly. “Don’t think I’m buying that.”

\---

Clint likes tea. He likes any beverage that comes in hot and caffeinated, honestly. But he doesn’t realize until Natasha hands over the cup that she just gave him exactly what he wanted. No. It’s what he _needed_.

 

The steam coming off it – still warm in this overheated room – has the heavy scent of roses. Perfumey and slightly sweet. It makes him feel nearly drunk before even taking a sip – drinking it is even more intense. He assumed that the flavor of roses would be cloying, and it is, but he loves it. It's peaty and earthy from the black tea leaves, filled with the floral flavor of roses, a dark and powerful combo. Tangible and heady as a kiss on the mouth from a beautiful woman.

 

It’s her. It’s Natasha in a drink. It’s exactly what he needed.

 

Natasha is not too alarmed when Clint chokes beside her, assuming that he’s tried to breathe the beverage – which, granted is not entirely unfounded – and so she pats him lightly on the back. She isn’t even that concerned when he turns and hugs her, still clutching the mug, tucking his face into her neck. She does worry when her neck starts getting wet.

 

“Oh,” she says faintly, startled. Luckily, her hands know what to do before her mouth does.

 

Clint can’t say he’s disappointed when Natasha sets their cups aside and then reaches to embrace him fiercely, petting his hair gently.

 

Bucky’s smiles behind their backs.

 

While he tried not to show it, Clint had doubts about whether she would want to stay in this relationship long term and Bucky hadn’t lied to him. She was over a decade younger than him and it was possible that committing to this was more than she could handle right now.

 

But when he took Natasha, Bucky had a feeling that with the right person, and the proper amount of care, she would respond the same way he had to Bobbi. Bucky had been banking on the opposite this whole time, that she would stun them with the ferocity of her devotion.

 

It was good to be right. For once.

\---

Five months later, they are in Mumbai, and there isn’t enough water anyway.

 

“You’re taking a bath?” Daisy squawked, staring at the three of them with an owlish expression. “Together?!”

 

Amused at her shock, Natasha asks “Would you like to come with us?”

 

“I, um…not really?”

 

“No?” Clint says in mock surprise. “But tonight is Inferno night. Tasha and Bucky are brilliant are the Inferno.”

 

“James does do such justice to Alighieri,” Natasha agrees.

 

Daisy checks all of their expressions, which are all some variation of amused. So she decides to call their bluff, assuming that they won’t let her into their weird threesome fun-times. “Okay.”

 

“Bring a robe,” Natasha says with a smile. “And a snack.”

 

There isn’t a proper bathroom here and James has no fancy cigarettes nor does Natasha have any extravagant tea, but they do have each other and a book. And pretzels. Daisy brought pretzels.

 

“Where were we?” James asks through a mouthful.

 

“Canto III,” Clint responds promptly, shoving an entire handful into his face.

 

James lets Natasha graciously go first and Daisy sits wide-eyed in her bath while all three adults lean up against the tub, facing away from her to give her at least the semblance of privacy. “ _Justice the founder of my fabric moved. To rear me was the task of power divine, supremest wisdom, and primeval love_ ,” Natasha begins, her tone menacing. “ _Before me things create were none, save things Eternal, and eternal I endure. All hope abandon ye who enter here.._.”

\---

“Daisy is jealous,” Natasha observes, watching the young woman board her flight with Coulson close by her side. Fitzsimmons wave at her from the windows.

 

“Of Simmons?!” Clint asks, clearly alarmed at the notion.

 

“No.”

 

“Of Fitz?” James asks, puzzled but slightly amused.

 

“No,” Natasha says calmly. “I think she’s jealous of us. I think she’s jealous of how close we are.”

 

James raises an eyebrow, tilting his head in her direction. “Daisy is afraid that her team will get tired of her and abandon her. Even though that would never happen.” He stares at her pointedly. “Does that sound like anyone we know?”

 

“All right already,” she says without a hint of irritation. “You make your point.”

 

Does he? Hm, no, there’s something more to do here.

 

Bucky decides to drop a bug in Fitz’s ear. He’ll listen to him, and Bucky doesn’t know Simmons well – just from stories, and they’ve never been introduced. For obvious reasons, Fitz is uncomfortable with the idea of spending time naked with his girlfriend and another girl – though she may as well be his sister – who is extremely attractive.

 

“I can’t just ask Jemma if she’s okay having a naked party with Daisy!” he protests in a yelp.

 

“It doesn’t matter HOW you spend time together, _gonchaya_ ,” Bucky says, laughing over the phone. “Do me a favor and think about it, okay? She just wants to spend time with you guys, Fitz. I’m sure you and Simmons can think of _something_.”

\---

May pretends to be annoyed that they send her roughly a thousand selfies. But she makes sure to keep a few. At least the locker room showers at headquarters are good for something.

 

Fitzsimmons and Daisy dress up in their bathing suits and take over the showers for an entire floor. Her secret favorite is the girls giving Fitz a big Santa Claus-like beard and hair using shaving cream and soap. No, no, that's her second favorite - it’s the photos of Fitz, with his patient hands, combing out and carefully braiding the girls’ hair.

 

Everyone knows that Coulson is sentimental, so no one is surprised when the smores photo ends up behind his desk.

 

Daisy, Fitz, and Simmons, squeaky clean and smiling, bundled up in their pajamas with big whipped-cream filled mugs of hot chocolate, toasting marshmallows in a homemade fireplace at the lab. Jemma and Daisy have their hair neatly braided and pinned up and Fitz squeezes them both close.

 

She pretends to be annoyed, but May holds on to all of them.


	6. the happiest place on earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I made Scott Lang a drag queen. I don't feel bad about this. Paul Rudd would pull off a dress and you know it.

Natasha is a little embarrassed at how long it takes her to figure out that Bucky isn’t straight – nearly six months after joining them. While he doesn’t make any special effort at hiding his orientation, Bucky also doesn’t actually overtly discuss it.

 

They end up at drag festival in Bushwick and Bucky promises he’ll be able to find someone who knows the area well enough to find the teenager with potential ties to domestic terrorism they’re searching for. She’s a little blindsided when Bucky – who is easily one of the most well-mannered men she knows – begins eyeing some of the drag queens the same way a wolf eyes a sheep, even whipping his head around to follow a passing pair. They’re both around Clint’s height, and slim, wearing very classy floor-length sheath gowns in jewel-toned velvet with long white gloves. They both notice Bucky’s hungry stare, waving and smiling flirtatiously at him as they continue walking on, giggling to themselves.

 

Bucky licks his lips, eyes wandering all over the crowd of queens.

 

“Down boy,” Clint says, laughing. Bucky makes a rumbling noise, not quite a growl. “I know it sucks, but we’re still on the clock. Much as it pains me to be the one saying this, the cute girls will need a raincheck.”

 

Natasha frowns, puzzled as she glances over at Bucky. “You know those weren’t actually women, right?”

 

Clint smirks, and begins laughing so hard he can barely draw breath. “Yep…yep, that’s why-why Barnes likes ‘em so much. They’ve got all the right equipment.”

 

They both look at Natasha in surprise as her mouth drops open. “You’re-?”

 

“Wow I thought you had that picked out ages ago!” Clint sounds gleeful.

 

“Gayer than a goddamn rainbow, yes,” Bucky says dryly. “I was wondering when you’d figure that out.”

 

Clint, because he’s obviously a terrible friend, adds “Bucky likes ‘em pretty, so this is basically his idea of Disneyland.”

 

Bucky throws him a dirty look before saying to Natasha “I hope this isn’t going to be a problem for you.”

 

Natasha is even more confused. “Why the hell would you wanting to have sex with those men be my problem?”

 

Now Clint actually looks annoyed, grumbling “Well, I’ve tried explaining that to Rollins and Karlstad, but for some reason, it doesn’t compute – probably because they have shit for brains.”

 

“They think we’re fucking?” James asks in surprise. “But you were married!”

 

“Yeah, and after we paired up, I got a divorce,” Clint points out, brows raised.

 

“Sorry, hot stuff. You’re not my type.”

 

Clint gestures at the crowd around them. “Clearly.”

 

Feeling a bit wrong-footed, Natasha watches James watching the crowd, and asks uncertainly “Can I ask…why, uh…if you’re gay, why the drag queens? They aren’t biologically women, but many of them prefer female pronouns and they’re dressed in feminine clothing…” Then she shakes her head, a little embarrassed. “You don’t have to answer that.”

 

“Hm, well I do tend to steer clear of transwomen – I’ve not been compatible with them in the past. Transmen, though…” He purrs and smiles to himself. “I’ve dated a few. They were very nice, but I was in the army at the time and I didn’t want to promise them anything.” He licks his lips and rubs his fingers together. “But I like the contrast of it, you know. The texture, mostly. And they’re so, _so_ pretty…”

 

James’ eyes darken, and Natasha unconsciously shifts closer to Clint, who glances over at her. It isn’t that she's scared, really. But before now, James has been extremely successful in presenting himself as a non-sexual being – an important primary goal for getting her to trust him and be comfortable with the team. Sure, he and Clint tease each other and make suggestive comments, but they’ve never done that to her or anyone else. Now that she’s gotten there and feels safer, it’s a little like becoming an adult and realizing that your parents still have sex.

 

With a start, she realizes that James is twenty-five, only five years old than her. His large and careful presence and the confidence of his leadership make him seem a decade older, but he’s still just a young man.

 

And the young man is a bit of a dog, to be honest.

 

Apparently, it’s not that James is well-behaved. It’s just that his tastes are so particular that he doesn’t often encounter what he really wants. From what Natasha can tell, what he likes is _small_.

 

The crowd is large, and James so easily distracted right now that it’s a miracle their contacted located them at all.

 

A queen with dark hair, a short skirt, and a lavish peacock headdress glances at James, double-takes and says in her testosterone-husky voice “Why, James Buchanan Barnes, as I live and breathe!”

 

James glances to the side, startled, then leers. “God _damn_ , Scott.”

 

She smiles at him, a slow coy thing filled with heat. Her eyes are lined with shimmering gold, making their hazel hue blaze brighter, bolder. ‘Scott’ smooths her hands down her jade and purple corset, preening just like the peacock she’s dressed up as. “Looking pretty good, huh?”

 

“You know you do,” James says hoarsely, looking him up and down. “ _Jesus_ , Scott.”

 

“I’ve gotten a little more practice,” she says, her smile turning slightly sheepish. “How are you, James? Still full of reasons to get a girl all hot and bothered, I see.”

 

“Only girls like you. I’m great, Scott – I mean…oh, uh, it’s still Nadia, right?” At her nod, he continues “I’m great, Nadia. How’s that baby girl of yours? God, the last time I saw her, Cassie was just-”

 

He makes the gesture of cradling an infant.

 

“Cassie’s great, but she’s such a big girl now – she’s seven.” Nadia says a bit sadly. “I knew she’d grow up fast but it’s definitely faster than I’d like.”

 

“Maggie’s doing okay, then?”

 

“Oh, yeah. Paxton got a desk job, so that makes her happy, even if he grumbles about it.”

 

James gives her a devilish smile. “Are you single, Scott?”

 

“For a wild man like you?” she says, smiling back. “God, I wish. No, I got married, actually. Luis is around here somewhere.” She lowers her eyelashes, teasing softly “’fraid you’re gonna have to find some other needy thing to corrupt now that I’m out of your wicked clutches.”

 

“I did no such thing,” James snorts, more quietly he adds “Nadia, you always were such a cocktease.”

 

“I know, aren’t I?” She grins, unrepentant. “The kid you’re looking for is gonna be in a queen of hearts costume, Bucky. Your height, maybe a teensy bit shorter. Bright red wig – hm, like your friend there. For the record, I don’t think he’s actually involved personally, but I can’t deny that he knows people.”

 

James shakes her hand and says “Thanks for your help, Scott. Lemme come by sometime and I’ll say hello to Cassie and the new husband.”

 

“I’d like that,” Nadia says sincerely. She tugs on James’ sleeve and leans up to his ear. Natasha is just close enough to hear her whisper “Come to me later when you’re not working – we can find you a boy who’ll do it the way you like.”

 

Natasha looks away, feeling a bit sick without quite knowing why. There’s just something kind of unsettling to the conversation she can’t put her finger on. Maybe just the way Scott/Nadia phrased it. ‘Do it the way you like’. Almost like… Natasha’s stomach turns over as she considers the words. Almost like they’re providing him a service.

 

But they have work to do and the conversation is put out of her mind for three more months.

\---

They aren’t on leave, exactly, but it’s a long-term surveillance assignment, so they’ve set up a semi-permanent residence along the Pacific. California is beautiful, but Natasha isn’t sure she likes the weather this hot all the time. She still has the heart of a Russian, and she doesn’t mind the cold too much. The novelty of it is nice though, for now.

 

She goes for a walk on the beach, enjoying the brief moment to herself and the peace and quiet of the ocean in moonlight. She sits and stares out at the waves, digging her toes into the wet sand, slowly sipping an iced tea. 

 

Clint is back in the bungalow – he and James went waterskiing all afternoon and the idiot got a terrible sunburn. After they slathered his back in aloe lotion and cold compresses, she and James left him to lie down in the air-conditioned bedroom with about a gallon of water. There’s really nothing else they can do for him until the burn heals on its own.

 

James, oddly enough, got a ‘hook-up’ from one of the neighbors. Normally, he told her, he wouldn’t have agreed, but this guy could be helpful for the surveillance project and he isn’t looking for something long-term, so James won’t feel too bad about packing up and leaving when the assignment is over.

 

Natasha realizes that she’s no longer used to being by herself anymore. She feels a bit sad and grumpy without them, actually. Even more oddly, she doesn’t mind. She likes being _near_ them. The bickering, the teasing, even just the comfortable silence. These have become a part of her internal life just as much as her external one.

 

Sighing, she picks up her shoes and wanders back to the bungalow. Poor Clint is probably still awake anyway, assuming James didn’t drug him to the gills before leaving for his ‘date’.

 

Only when she approaches their porch, she discovers someone sitting at the steps.

 

James is slouched against the bannister. He doesn’t have the look of a man whose had a good night with a ‘friend’ – no, actually, he looks…depressed. A glass of something amber and on ice sits beside him which means that he didn’t just get here, either. James is a big boy, and he can fight his own battles, but he _won’t_ , and Natasha has the oddest feeling that she needs to beat someone up.

 

( _Use me but as your spaniel – spurn me, strike me, neglect me, lose me. Only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you_.) The more she learns about James the more she wonders if he was speaking as Helena or himself. He _was_ a bit of a dog, but that extends past his tendency to pant at the heels of every pretty boy he meets.

 

It’s devotion and loyalty and a reckless disregard for his own emotional pain that makes her feel…protective of him. He shouldn’t need protecting, but Natasha knows how soft and gentle he really is, and men, humans as a whole, are _terrible_. Humans use people for their own interests and James is all too willing to let himself be used, to make others happy.

 

She sits down beside and says, “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

 

(Without him, without them, she wouldn’t have had the language or ability to ask after someone else’s wellbeing.)

 

James takes a long drink from his glass and answers dully “He wanted me to hit him. No, not hit him… _cane_ him.”

 

Natasha swallows. She has a bad feeling about this – she suspected that his appetites ran something toward this direction when she overheard the conversation with Nadia/Scott. James is trained in violence and he’s strong – he can do a lot more damage than most people would be able to comprehend. “And…?”

 

“And I went home,” he mutters, running a hand through the short strands of dark hair. “I can’t-I _can’t_ , Natasha.” He squeezes his eyes shut tightly and James sounds near tears as he shakes his head. “I don’t wanna be my dad.”

 

Her arms are around him before Natasha has time to think about it. “I’ve never met him, and you haven’t told me much about him, but I can promise you, James. You are nothing like that man.”

 

Behind them, the porch creaks and Clint comes over to sit down heavily on Natasha’s other side, reaching past her to squeeze James’ shoulder. “Even when we have nothing, we know we still got you, Bucky. And for damn sure, you got us.”

 

It's this night, and remembering the spaniel quote, that leads Natasha to realize that her initial assumption was not only incorrect - it was the complete reverse.

\---

Saturday, March 10th, 2018

Steve stares at himself in the mirror and she can see him clenching his teeth.

 

“Natasha I’m sorry, but if he laughs, I’m gonna break his jaw,” he vows, nostrils flaring. His fists tighten and relax at his sides.

 

“He isn’t going to laugh,” she says calmly, nimble fingers slipping each tiny pearl button through their equally tiny loops.

 

“But he might lose his mind,” Clint adds, trying to get Lucky clipped to his leash while the retriever bounces around and trips him. “Just, you know, fair warning.”

 

Natasha gently dabs cologne at his wrists. She meets Steve’s eyes in the mirror. That he’s is letting them see how nervous he is to begin with is trust in itself. She squeezes his shoulders and smooths her hands down the blue silk of his sleeves before handing him the lip gloss. “You look beautiful.”

 

Steve swipes the gloss over his mouth, his pink mouth shining, and eyes his own reflection critically. “Shouldn’t there be…more, I guess? I don’t look like a girl. I look like me in a dress. I’m not even wearing make-up.”

 

Surprisingly, it’s actually Clint who answers. “You’re not supposed to,” he says, slipping their water bottles into Natasha’s purse. “Have you got the-?”

 

She hands Clint the car keys and says “That’s exactly what we want. In your case, the point isn’t to make you into a woman, it’s just enhancing some of your best features. The gloss isn’t tinted, it’s just going to make your mouth look shiny.” Quietly she adds “It’s a good present, and I do think James will love it, but if this really makes you uncomfortable, he wouldn’t want you to do this, Steve.”

 

Steve does another reflexive clench of his teeth and sighs. “Sorry. It’s just that…my whole life has been people telling me I’m not much of a man and now I’m…”

 

He gestures at himself in the mirror, the old-fashioned blue silk with its pearl buttons down the back and the high neck framing his throat. _Clint is right_ , Natasha thinks.  _Any sane person would lose their mind if they came home to this. James will climb the walls when he sees him._

 

“Clint paints his fingernails and his favorite color is purple. If I weren’t a married woman, I’d consider having you to myself in this outfit.” She raises her eyebrow at him pointedly. “But from what I’ve heard, you’re too much man for me, Steven.”

 

She smiles at his blush. “Bucky told you about that?”

 

“Mm, no, but I know what he likes – and the teeth marks across his shoulders aren’t exactly subtle.” She kisses his cheek. “Time for us to go. Have fun – and try not to turn James into a blithering idiot. Not on a permanent basis, anyway."

 

Clint nods. "I can pretty much guarantee he's gonna think you're hotter than a fresh fucked fox in a forest fire. I'll leave you Lucky's spray bottle just in case." 

 

He rolls his eyes and gives them both a hug before they stomp off to board their flight to Vegas, Lucky and Liho in tow.

 

 _Poor boy_ , Natasha sighs to herself. _He thinks we're joking!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This end scene will be expanded into a smutty one-shot later in the series - just in case you were excited for that.


	7. darkness within, darkness without

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I cannot emphasize enough that I AM NOT A DOCTOR. I am not an expert on psychology or a psychiatrist, and while I have researched this, it is a gross oversimplification. (Also, you know...comic-book science). Warnings for child abuse, child death, dissociation, homophobic language, and just the general winter soldier warning umbrella. 
> 
> I'm sorry...but not as sorry as you're about to be :(

December, 2015

It takes Clint less than a day of watching him, less than a day of seeing the vague way the Winter Soldier looks out at the world, to decide that this problem is bigger than he can handle himself. He tries talking to him, which does seem to help a little, but the person that is not his friend doesn’t answer to his name.

 

As much as they’ve twitted him about his spoiled rich boy status, it’s actually Tony Stark who helps him find a workable solution.

 

“You obviously don’t want him in a private psychiatric hospital,” the younger man says carefully, holding Clint’s gaze when the sniper begins glaring at him.

 

“ _NO-”_ Bucky flinches at the volume and Clint winces, lowering his voice. “No, absolutely not. I don’t know a whole hell of a lot about multiple personalities – _dissociative identity disorder_ – but I do know that _this_ ,” He points toward the looming Soldier, “-is like his _protector_ , or whatever. His guardian personality. He isn’t going to go away until he thinks Bucky will be safe. And that is definitely not gonna happen in a hospital psyche ward. I need a professional, but after dealing with that lunatic Zemo, I honestly don’t know where to look.”

 

Tony plays with the spoon next to his coffee cup, twirling it idly around his fingers. “Why don’t you leave that to me?”

 

“You?” Clint blinks. “Tony, you got a lot of experience with finding a good psychiatrist?”

 

“Har-de-har-har,” the boy says, scowling. “Shockingly, no. But you three did drag me out of a hole I was gonna die in. I think finding Buckaroo a decent shrink to help you figure out what you’re doing is the least I can do.”

 

Clint scratches the back of his head. He feels utterly helpless to help Bucky in any way and he absolutely _hates_ that feeling. “Uh, yeah.” He swallows and holds out a cracker for the shadow of his friend, who has started pacing around them with an edgy air. Jemma has warned him that he often picks up on the emotions of those around him, much like the original personality. “Yeah, Tones, why don’t you go ahead and do that. Thanks.”

\---

“Roger-Dodger!”

 

“Tony, I’ve told you a hundred times never to call me that,” Steve replies, shifting his phone to his shoulder with a grimace as he arranges his easel to his liking. He’d pulled a muscle there last week, stalking former ‘associates’ with intel on Rumlow’s current whereabout in Dubai.

 

“What are the odds I’ll listen this time?” Tony says cheerfully.

 

“Knowing you? Probably somewhere in the negatives,” Steve says dryly, selecting his acrylics. “What do you want?”

 

“I’m hurt, Steve. Can’t an old buddy from college call up to say…”

 

“They can,” Steve interjects calmly. “But not you. You don’t call me unless you need something.”

 

There is a lingering silence on the other end of the line that makes him cringe at his own tactlessness. He can practically _hear_ the way he’s hurt Tony’s feelings.

 

Steve sighs. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant if you wanted to say hi or meet up for a drink, you would’ve texted rather than calling me directly. Calling usually means you’ve gotten yourself in trouble or you need something you don’t know how to put into a text.”

 

He knows he is forgiven because Tony breezes by the comment as though nothing has happened. “You have a lot of experience with head doctors, don’t you, Steve?”

 

The blond frowns and begins to smear a layer of blue over his canvas. He saw his mother again last night in a dream and it was best to just get her on canvas and leave it alone than trying to fight the images. “I guess. I mean I’ve had to talk to several. But most of them were specialists with grief or, you know, juveniles.”

 

“Did they help?” Tony sounds achingly young in a way that reminds Steve there is a solid six years of age difference between them.

 

Steve bites his lip, but as usual, elects to tell the truth. “No, they didn’t. Not for me, at least. But you have to understand, Tony, it took _years_ for me to be ready to let her go. Do _you_ need to see a grief counsellor?”

 

“Um, no, I need help finding someone who specializes in dissociation.” There is a tenseness to the pause after that and as Steve’s worry grows, Tony gives a bark of forced laughter. “This is gonna sound fake and lame, but it’s actually for a friend of mine. He has dis- oh, _fuck it_. He has split personalities. You know…”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve breathes, heart beating faster. God, if this is who he thinks it is. Well, it wasn’t so unlikely. Tony has already mentioned him in a roundabout way before. “Is this the guy you’re working on that arm for?”

 

“Yeah, same dude. His… _brother_ …is kind of lost and doesn’t know what to do for him right now.”

 

Steve swallows. “I know an expert on serious trauma over in Harlem. You do, too, actually – we’ve both met him. Doctor Bruce Banner.”  

 

“Right, yeah! I’ll tell him. Thanks, Steve.”

 

He closes his eyes and breaths out. “No problem.”

\---

Zima misses Printsessa and the Star. It likes blood-red woman and hawk-man, but _they_ don’t like _It_.

 

After It meets them, they both speak to a dark man who tastes of leather and tobacco – musky and filled with shadows. Zima doesn’t like him much, because his words fill hawk-man and blood-red woman to the brim with cup after cup of grief.

 

Hawk-man’s whole voice vibrates whenever he speaks to Zima, and it shatters the air around him. He won’t come near It, won’t touch It, and Zima think perhaps he is too dirty for them.

 

Blood-red woman is even worse – she can’t look at It without crying and Zima hates the sound. Her chili flavor burns the roof of Its mouth and her chocolate flavor turns acid-bitter.

 

Zima can taste their grief when they speak to It, so strong it seems to fill Zima’s whole mouth, until It throws up and they make the dark man leave.

 

It has been disgusting, so they leave It alone.

 

And alone.

 

And alone.

 

It hides in corners and does not speak. Zima hopes that if It behaves well, they will return It to Printsessa.

 

Instead, the hawk-man comes back for It.

 

Today, hawk-man speaks to cat-man. Cat-man is cat-man because he has narrow, clever eyes and doesn’t like to be touched by others. Zima doesn’t mind him but his voice is loud, with a very strong taste to it. Like pineapples, too sweet and too sour at the same time, until Zima’s tongue stings. It sucks on the crackers hawk-man gives It to soothe Zima’s mouth.

 

The other one is happier here.

 

Zima is just so tired.

\---

March 2016

“So, how do I make it go away?” Bucky asks the doctor intently, elbows resting on his knees.

 

Banner, mild and gentle, blinks and says “It? That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

 

Bucky shakes his head and says “Soldat is a leftover of HYDRA, and I want it gone.”

 

The doctor, though sympathetic, says “James, I hate to tell you this, but as severe as the treatment Ms. Simmons describes is, I don’t believe three months of capture could result in the formation of a completely different identity.”

 

He is visibly agitated, but still works to meet Banner’s eye. “What do you mean?”

 

“You say that your father…hm, George, yes? Your father was frequently verbally and physically abusive towards yourself and your mother in your early childhood?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says nervously. “My sisters, too, but…not as much.”

 

“Yes, Rebecca told me that you protected all of them quite a bit. I spoke with her while she was here a few months ago. Do you know what she told me? She says after your father would leave the house, she’d sometimes find you hiding in your mother’s closet. Do you remember that?”

 

Mouth dry, Bucky shakes his hand almost frantically.

 

“That’s interesting because Rebecca told me that you’d spend hours there, not speaking. Barely breathing. She would try calling your name, but you never seemed to hear her. Winifred would eventually have to come in and order you out.” Kindly, Banner says “James, dissociative identity disorder doesn’t happen in a few months. It’s usually observed in adults who were abused as children. ‘Zima’ was not born in a HYDRA bunker – he’s probably been with you since childhood.”

 

Bucky is still shaking his head. “But-but I don’t understand…I…!”

 

“There were moments – brief or drawn-out – that whatever you were experiencing was too painful for you to handle, James. And in those moments, Zima was born, over a period of years. His behavior is child-like, because when you created him, you were _also_ a child. Ms. Simmons has observed that he refers to himself as ‘it’ and says that he was made wrong. I’m sure…” More quietly, more gently, Banner says “I’m sure if we were to look at your childhood memories, James, George refers to _you_ this way.”

 

With his head in his hands, Bucky chokes out “He called me…” Breathing in to swallow down tears years too late to fall. “He’d call me a disgusting faggot.”

 

“I’m not saying it’s not possible to remove his presence, James,” Banner says intently. “But I want you to understand that removing his consciousness will mean that you must integrate his memories into your own. Bucky’s awareness and Zima’s awareness will have to become James’ awareness. And I’m not entirely certain that you are ready to remember the things that he knows.”

 

“Okay.” A deep breath and then another. “Okay. You’re right. That feels like a really bad idea.”

\---

January 2018

“I want to pull out the Winter Soldier – to pull out _Zima_...like, on purpose,” Bucky tells the doctor, without bothering to segue into it.

 

“ _Wow_. That’s…radically different the way you’ve felt about Zima thus far, James,” Banner says, brows furrowed. “Can I ask what’s changed?”

 

 _Steve_ , he wants to say, but that’s frankly a whole other conversation. “How do we know that I’m the original?” Bucky demands. “How do we know that I’m the real James Buchanan Barnes?”

 

Gently, Banner says “We don’t, James. We don’t have any way of knowing that Zima isn’t the child your mother gave birth to and you are not the high-functioning person his mind created. We assume that you are James because you are the identity who has the most control. But we don’t really know.”

 

To his relief, Bucky nods “That’s what I thought. I don’t-I don’t really want what he knows, Bruce. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to handle that. But he doesn’t deserve to spend his whole existence locked up like an animal in a cage just because he isn’t the ‘right’ James Barnes. I’ve-I’ve talked to Clint and Nat, and they’ve agreed to help, y’know, watch him.”

 

 Banner blinks, looking pleased. “I’m glad you’ve seen that Zima deserves to be respected and treated with kindness. I know you weren’t exactly cruel to him, but you must admit, you didn’t think kindly of him, either.”

 

Bucky shrugs. “He can be dangerous, but I’ve started to realize that he doesn’t do it on purpose. I guess it helps that I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be happy being in control on a permanent basis. I think he finds everyday life sort of…stressful.”

 

“I can see that. Let’s pencil in a meeting with the Bartons for our next session. I’d like to talk to them about their strategies for Zima before you do this. Maybe we can try this here before you attempt it at home?”

 

“Yeah, we can do that.”

\---

Zima is bewildered. They don’t like to have It – to have _him_ around. Why has the other one brought him here?

 

“ _Zima?”_ the hawk-eyed man asks carefully. His voice is only vibrating a little bit this time. “ _Vashe imya Zima?”_

_“Da, ya Zima,”_ he says meekly, gripping the edge of the seat cushion.

 

“ _Vy znayete, kto my?”_ blood-red woman asks, staring at Zima with her sad eyes. At least she’s not crying this time. It- _he_ hates when she cries. It’s almost worse than Printsessa, because the other one goes half-mad, too.

 

“ _Devochka?_ ” he says uncertainly.

 

She nods and Zima is startled when her arms come up around him. “I’m so sorry, _malenkaya_ ,” she murmurs and kisses his forehead. “We weren’t good at this before, but we’ll do better from now on, I promise.”

\---

Natasha can tell by the stiff way he holds himself as she hugs him that Zima probably can remember the time he sprained her wrist by accident. God, this whole time, every terrible thing they’ve said about him, every time they wished he would go away, he’s understood it. Internalized it, even.

 

“ _Ptichka and Devochka are ‘best’_ ,” he mumbles, without meeting any of their eyes. “ _There isn’t ‘better’, because you are ‘best_ ’.”

 

“But you like Printsessa more, right?” Clint asks gently.

 

“ _Zima like Printsessa. Zima like Ptichka and Devochka, too_.” He frowns at his lap. “ _They not like Zima. Voices taste like tears when they talk to Zima_.”

 

“Voices…taste…?” Natasha repeats.

 

“Oh, dude!” Clint breathes. “Bucky described this for us, remember? He can see and taste sound! Shit, no wonder he threw up every time we tried talking to him those first couple of weeks. It must’ve been…”

 

“Like torture,” Natasha says miserably, giving him another, tighter hug. “We’ve accidentally tortured him for weeks. I’m so sorry, you never deserved any of this. Can you forgive us?”

 

“ _Zima doesn’t need to forgive. Zima deserves whatever he is given – he was not made right. This is why Zima comes and the other one goes away.”_

 

“Shit,” Clint says bleakly. “No, no, you were absolutely made right.”

 

When he starts breathing harder, Clint rubs his back. “Shh, you’re okay. We’ll stop talking now – it’s making you sick.”

\---

It does get easier with time.

 

Bruce lightly points out that tormenting themselves with guilt over the past not only doesn’t help Zima, it actively hurts him. The more upset bleeds into their voices, the sicker he becomes, so they distract themselves.

 

“Can you draw me a picture?” Natasha requests one day, sitting beside him at the dining room table with a thick pad of paper and some oil pastels borrowed from Steve. “Zima, _ty risuyesh dlya menya?_ ”

 

They haven’t quite gotten him to stop looking for commands. He doesn’t know how to operate without orders to occupy him, so they’ve compromised by giving him leisure-oriented activities. Natasha is hoping this one will give them better insight into the way his mind works. _“Risovat chto?”_

 

“I want you to draw me your favorite people. Zima’s ‘best’ people. Okay?”

 

He nods and Natasha fixes them lemonade. They have found that he is much less careless with his strength when he doesn’t feel pressured or anxious, so she behaves as though everything is completely normal.

 

She is expecting herself and Clint, Simmons, and maybe Steve. If it were James, she’d probably add Daisy, Fitz, and Bobbi to that number.

 

Zima’s Clint has a shock of butter-yellow hair but the rest of him is done in shades of purple. Arrow-shaped shockwaves erupt from his mouth. Clint’s voice, she realizes. Not only does it have a taste, but apparently Zima can _visualize_ their voices, too. Jesus. Natasha makes a mental note to modulate their volume better.

 

Natasha is, naturally, in shades of red, her voice drawn as another red line of red that seems to encompass the space around her.

 

Next is Simmons, in shades of amber and gold, whose voices spirals out from her mouth in bronze corkscrews.

 

Steve has shimmering white skin, with a voice that halos around his body in silver and rose. Goodness, no wonder Zima thinks he’s a star!

 

It’s when Zima begins the fifth picture that Natasha becomes truly curious. She hadn’t predicted any more than that. This is a picture of blobs – blobs in different shades of pink. The largest is a heavy, saturated pink like a summer rose in full bloom. The other is a purplish berry-pink, and the smallest is more off a pink off-white. “Who is that, _malenkaya_?”

 

He points to each of them “ _Georgeta. Viorica. Sofia.”_

 

“Are those…your sisters?” she asks, confused. Rebecca was supposed to be the eldest. Oh. Then again, if Rebecca were actually named after their father George, she probably preferred to go by another name. _Any_ other name. Both of the siblings have erased their father’s surname, after all.

 

Winifred had named James after her own father, who was also James Buchanan. In the technical sense, James was actually James Buchanan Barnes Junior, but when James legally had his last name changed at eighteen, James Senior had been dead since before he was even born, so he hadn’t bothered with the whole junior/senior business. She didn’t think she’d ever even heard him _say_ his original surname.

 

Natasha didn’t blame him. Her original official documents had said “Natalia Alexandrovna Lukina” before she dug into the data to find her biological parents. One of the first things she’d done in America was changing those documents to reflect the information – she was “Natalia Alianovna Romanova” ever since then.

 

“ _Oni samyye Zima luchshiye – moi luchishiye. Samyy krasivyy.”_

  
She kisses his forehead and hands him the lemonade. “You are absolutely right. They _are_ Zima’s best. Excellent work.”

 

James has talked about Viorica and Sofia before, but he’s often said that he didn’t remember much of them, because they were really young when George killed them. It was an accident – Natasha’s mouth twisted – in the way that you could ‘accidentally’ beat two toddlers to death.

 

James has said by then he was a teenager, trying to find more and more ways to get out of the house, so he didn’t have many memories of them. But Rebecca has told her before that James was utterly devoted to them, to all of them. That he was often there to stop their father from hurting them, that James would shield them with his own body and take beatings, sometimes multiple in one day, to keep his sisters safe.

 

**_(“We were seven, and four, and three. The only thing we could do was hope Mom would talk him down or James could get in front of him. I hate that he did it and I love him for it, at the same time.”)_ **

 

She wonders now if he doesn’t remember much because he actually spent most of his time fading in and out of his own body. If it was Zima who spent all that time trying to stop George from hurting them, protecting the girls with his body and protecting James in his mind.

  
She still remembers James telling her that night by the fire that all of them have ‘dark stuff’. Carding her fingers through the dark shaggy hair, Natasha never would’ve guessed at the darkness that was waiting for James, in his past or in their future. “I know you lost them, but you’ve got us, _malenkaya_. You’ve still got us.”

\---

Now in hindsight, Clint agrees that they probably should’ve kept the door locked, but in their defense, the restaurant staff knew better than to go upstairs to the apartment. The three of them made very clear to the head manager that unless the building was literally on the verge of burning down, none of them were allowed anywhere near the apartment entrance.

 

So, Steve walks into the door to hysterical laughter. Is that…Natasha? Even more odd is the sound of Clint, half-laughing and half-singing:

 

 _“My Nat she is a spunky gal,_  
sing polly-wolly-doodle-all-the-day!  
With laughing eyes, and curly hair,  
sing polly-wolly-doodle-all-the-day!  
Fare-thee-well! Fare-the-well-!”

 

The singing breaks off into straight out laughter as Steve walks in to see Clint and Bucky juggling a set of heavy paper-weights that would probably kill one of them if it drops on their head.

 

No…no that isn’t Bucky.

 

That’s…Zima?

 

Clint grew up in the circus. Zima seems to like the music and the acrobats, so his version of playing was teaching the child-like personality how to juggle as well as a circus performer. Zima doesn’t know the words like Clint does, but to Steve’s surprise, he can hum along with the tune just fine. His smile is a small, crooked thing but it exists all the same.

 

Steve is painfully, _beautifully_ in love.

 

And Zima is, too.

 

“Shit!” Clint cries, as half of the paper weights crash to the floor. “Zima-bear, what-? Oh!”

 

The stricken look on Zima’s face makes Steve, if humanly possible, fall harder and faster than ever. He laughs in surprise as two-hundred pounds of excited boyfriend pushes him into a wall and begins nuzzling at him frantically.

 

Clint mentally smacks himself on the forehead. Shit, they should’ve thought of this before! Of course, _of course,_ Zima wants to see Steve! _Bucky_ wants to see Steve all the time, and what the two of them want usually isn’t so very different.

 

Steve shrieks with laughter, sliding lower and lower with Zima’s antics, until he’s laying flat on the floor and trying to catch his breath. Clint, with a grin on his face, has pulled out his phone and begun filming them. Zima rubs his cheek against his narrow sternum and Steve holds his head there with a gentle hand in his hair. Gazing into those frost-pale eyes, he murmurs “Why hello there, my love.”

 

“ _Prekrasnaya Zvezda!”_ Zima breathes worshipfully, and Steve goes red in the face.

 

 _“Que faisiez-vous, mon amour?”_ he asks, rather than commenting on that.

 

_“En jouant. Le faucon et la petite fille veulent jouer avec Zima.”_

_“Ouais?”_ Steve says, clearly pleasantly surprised. _“That’s very nice of them. Can I watch, sweetheart?”_

 

Zima nods eagerly. He’s never quite shown this level of initiative before to actively want something, but then again, they should’ve remembered that when it comes to Steve, he’s willing to break as many rules as he has to.

 

Natasha decides that they should probably remember that in the future – Zima has shown in the past that he’s willing to do things with his own imperative or ignore direct orders in favor of Steve, and they probably need to keep that in mind.

 

Steve chuckles. _“You have to let go then, darling.”_

 

Natasha sees the unhappiness on Zima’s face and shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. He’s probably been hoping to see you anyway.”

 

 _“Oh? Did you miss me?”_ he whispers, kissing his cheek. At Zima’s shy nod, Steve says _“Good! I missed you, too, you know.”_

 

And then Clint and Natasha remember the other thing they forgot too easily.

 

Steve loves Bucky, but he fell in love with Zima _first._

\---

Personally, Clint is fully expecting to find the two of them fucking when he and Natasha come back home. It will be hilarious and awkward as fuck, Steve and Bucky will scramble to put some clothes on, and everybody will try as hard as humanly possibly to forget what just happened.

 

Instead, jet-lagged and woozy, they open the door to a dimly lit apartment. In the living room, the lights are off and Cutthroat Kitchen plays on low volume. Steve’s sketchpad has been deposited on the coffee table and Zima is cuddled up to his tiny blond star like he is Steve’s personal throw blanket.

 

Steve strokes his back and hums an absent tune that is half-familiar, arms draped around the giant Zima-shaped pillow resting on his chest, murmuring in his low, out-sized voice “…and then my grave will warmer, sweeter be! For you shall bend and tell me that you love me, and I shall sleep in peace until you come to me…”

 

Though not wholly aware of the song’s meaning, Zima purrs at the sound of his favorite voice, waves of coconut-creamy and lemon-sharp washing over him. Purrs and rubs his face eagerly over the lovely bird bones and fragile skin. _“Zima aime l’etoile,”_ he tells him. _“L’etoile est la meilleure. Favori.”_

_Wow._ Clint thinks. _Leave it to these two losers to get even more awkward than wild Friday-night fucking._

_“L’etoile est a toi, Zima,”_ Steve replies, scratching his fingers lightly up his spine. “ _Toujours, toujours, toujours.”_

_Disgusting_ , Natasha thinks and shakes her head with a smile. _Just nauseating._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Steve sings "Danny Boy" for his first love <3  
> Translation notes  
> "Zima? Is your name Zima?"  
> "Yes, I'm Zima."  
> "Do you know who we are?"  
> "Little girl?" (this Bucky's nickname for Natasha. Natasha also calls Zima 'malenkaya' which means 'little one')  
> \---  
> "Zima, can you draw for me?"  
> "Draw what?"  
> "They are Zima's favorite - my favorite. The most beautiful."  
> \---  
> "Beautiful Star!"  
> "What are you doing, my love?"  
> "Playing. Hawk and little girl want to play with Zima."  
> "Yeah?"  
> \---  
> "Zima loves the Star. The Star is the best. Favorite."  
> "The Star is yours, Zima. Always, always, always."


	8. we move to the light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Black Widow, baby.

“Where is Constanta?” Clint asks, squinting out from the top of the ridge.

 

Natasha scoffs and James chuckles. “You won’t be able to see it from here, _ptichka_. It’s clear over on the other side of the country, beside the Black Sea.”  

 

“Oh,” he says, disappointed. “I wanted to see where you grew up!”

 

“Some other time,” he says firmly, checking the digital map tablet and glancing over the wide Sokovian forests below them at the Romanian border. It was SHIELD issued, showing nearby teams and supply drops. “Oh. Bobbi is stationed near here.”

  
Natasha’s stomach tightens. “Great!” Clint says cheerfully. “We should say hello and also kick Hunter in the shins.”

 

Bobbi is an important person to both James and Clint – but she’s not too comfortable with the idea of seeing her. Bobbi is tall, buxom, and blonde. Everything Natasha isn’t. Everything that, according to American pop culture, is most desirable in a woman. On top of that, if you listen to James, she’s fierce as a she-wolf over a carcass, with far more combat experience than Natasha.

 

It’s not that she feels inadequate. All right, maybe a little bit. But…but it never used to matter if a man desired someone else. Their feelings didn’t mean anything to her. This time she actually _cares_ if Clint’s eyes wander.

 

Their posting – and it is a posting, Bobbi and Hunter are watching for people bringing in weapons illegally who travel this very pass – is at the bottom of the pass on the Sokovian side. The woman herself is waiting for them by the time they have finished descending.

 

Cool and remote in her white sweater and jeans, Bobbi watches them trudge up before breaking into a sudden grin. “If it isn’t all my troubles,” she hollers and pulls James into her arms. “What the hell are your ugly faces doing here?”

 

“Was looking for a mockingbird,” Clint says mildly, giving her a quick hug. “Seen any around?”

 

“It’s good to know you’re every bit the shithead you always were, Barton,” she says, laughing loudly as she hugs him back. “Come in and have a beer.”

 

To Natasha’s surprise, Bobbi smiles at her and says “How on earth did dumb and dumber convince you to follow ‘em around?”

 

Natasha blinks, deadpanning “I was afraid without me, they’d die wandering around in the wilderness somewhere.”

 

Bobbi’s partner, Hunter, crows at this. “Oh, I knew I liked her! Your spiderling is smarter than the two of you put together!”

 

She frowns “Spider?”

 

Bobbi waves Hunter off. “Sorry, his Russian isn’t great. Bucky called her _chernaya vdova,_ Lance. Not ‘spider’. That’s _pauk._ ”

 

Natasha stares at Hunter, then at James. “You gave me a code name?”

 

Only a great SHIELD agent had a nickname. If you had a nickname, you were a SHIELD _legend_. Hawkeye. The Cavalry. Blue Streak. Ghost Rider. Texas Twister. Mockingbird. She knew Bobbi was called ‘mockingbird’ because she could change her mannerisms at the drop of a hat undercover, flashing in and out of a persona as quick as changing her clothes, could mimic accents perfectly.

 

The point was, these people were known because they were the best. James apparently thought she was up there with them – and members of other teams were impressed enough to actually agree with him.

 

“Yeah, he did,” Hunter drawls, eyeing her. Not like a potential conquest, which surprises her, but like a gunslinger sizing up another gunslinger. “Sergeant Barnes here says you lure a target so fast it’s like watching a spider spin a web.”

 

“Takes ‘em out nearly as fast as May, too. Right up close.” Clint agrees without hesitation.

 

James nods and smiles. “Fascinating and deadly, that’s our Natalia.”

 

Bobbi does not miss the brief flash of bewildered pleasure on Natasha’s face. It only takes Bobbi watching her knock Lance on his ass in three seconds for both of them to agree with the boys’ assessment.

 

In a month, every team stationed in Europe knows about Strike Team Delta’s beautifully lethal _chernaya vdova._ The Black Widow.

\---

Natasha crashes through the underbrush, trying to keep sightlines on the ATV ahead of her, cursing under her breath as she runs. Clint told her the man driving it was their drug mule and with Natasha’s luck, she’s going to step on an alligator in the middle of this fucking swamp and end up being eaten alive in godforsaken south Florida. _You_   _could’ve been a dancer but noooooo, you wanted to help people, Natalia! Decided to become a SHIELD agent! Congratulations! Now you’re chasing a coked-up bottom rung of the drug cartel on Mickey Mouse’s front lawn…_

 

Luckily, the ATV also has to navigate the marshy areas and it’s even less suited to the terrain than human legs. Natasha can only assume that they actually have drugs they are transporting right this minutes. Great! If she can catch him with the evidence still on him, that will save them loads of tedium trying to locate the package. “You got eyes on him, Natasha?”

 

She takes a second to catch her breath as the ATV stops in front of a gray concrete building, floodlights shining bright around the large vacant parking lot. “Yeah.” *pant* *pant* *pant* “About a half a mile out from your post. I think he might have the package on him.”

 

“Widow, please pursue,” James says calmly. “But watch for look-outs. Catching Lloyd with the evidence will make our lives a lot easier.”

 

“Copy that, Sergeant.”

 

The empty parking lot makes her a little nervous. “Sergeant, I’m not actually seeing any look-outs.”

 

“Hernandez suggested that Lloyd was dipping into his own stash,” Clint says helpfully. “Maybe this is part of that.”

 

The ATV driver – Lloyd, she’s assuming – has a black cargo bag attached to the back of the vehicle, which he carefully unstraps and takes with him. Natasha, knowing that she needs to keep eyes on him, curses some more to herself and follows him despite her uneasiness with the dark, silent lot. “He’s entering the building. Black Widow in pursuit.”

 

There are two entrances – the ground level door that Lloyd went through, or an upper freight-style balcony for deliveries. She doesn’t really want to follow him directly through the ground level entrance, but it will difficult to get up to the balcony access level without Clint or James’ assistance.

 

Gritting her teeth, Natasha keeps one hand on her sidearm as she slips through the ground level doors. It’s dimly lit, and there’s no sign of Lloyd anywhere, but the black duffle is there and her eyes dart around the room quickly. She doesn’t know where he went, but she should check the bag to make absolutely certain that the heroin and guns were inside, otherwise she had nothing to bring him in for.

 

She strains every muscle and nerve listening for the sound of movement and when she hears nothing, finally slinks forward and pulls out her light to inspect the interior in the poorly lit room. There are no black-market ammunitions and no drug paraphernalia – instead is a white box that smells like sugar and vanilla.

 

Puzzled and annoyed, Natasha flips the box open to reveal a cake, beautifully decorated with a spray of flowers and red lettering. She stares dumbly at it for a moment before her brain comprehends the words inscribed inside:

 

Happy Golden Birthday

To our dear Natasha

Love Always C & J

 

 _“Krasota!”_ Natasha breathes, sagging against the wall, the adrenaline abruptly draining out of her. “Come out here, idiots! I know you’re around somewhere!” If her voice sounds wobbly well it’s not her fault. It’s just very dusty in this room.

 

The lights in the upper level suddenly come on and her two loving idiots come crashing down the industrial stairs. “Aw, dammit!” Clint sighs. “Shit, Bucky said you would be happy!”

 

“You don’t like it?” God, she _cannot_ handle James’ puppy dog eyes. Not that she’ll be telling him that anytime soon.

 

“I do like it,” she says with a weak smile. “But I thought I was going to get shot.” At the looks on their faces, she holds out a hand and says, “Oh for god’s sake, just come here and give me a hug.”

 

Her eyes begin to water as Clint arms come around her, squeezing her against the firm warm weight of himself. Then James kisses the top of her head, and whispers _“La multi ana, fetita mea”_ and the tears finally spill free of her control.

 

“Oh, oh no, baby you’re okay,” he croons, rubbing her back and rocking her a little. “You’re okay. We’ve gotcha. Mama Bear is here.”  

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to!” she mumbles into his shirt, sniffing so that she can pull her together. James is the perfect size for hiding into and he always indulges her, comforts her, no matter how silly. “It’s beautiful.”

 

“Shhh, shhh,” he hushes. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

 

It’s almost a pity, really, that he wastes this on her. He’d make such a good father. Such a good uncle. As terrible a father as George had been, James must’ve been a delight to have as a big brother.

 

Clint makes her rose tea and they both waltz with her around the room – James a little more gracefully, but she can tell that Clint has been practicing for her.

 

He leads her up to the cargo balcony door, making her laugh as usual. She hangs off the edge with Clint curled around her, dozing against him, the Florida air somehow humid even at the end of November. He and James have already shown her the wonders of an American Thanksgiving and tomorrow, they have promised to make it for her and they will eat until they’re stupid. She’s looking forward to it.

 

When Clint holds the box on her thigh, Natasha temporarily goes deaf, dumb, and blind. “I’m not going to ask you, because I don’t want you to feel like you have to give me an answer,” he says quietly, words catching a little in his throat the way the do when he’s really emotional, his keen eyes focused on the moon-soaked everglades. “You don’t. Not today, or tomorrow, or ten years from now. Keep it in your pocket or keep it in your sock drawer. But you- you’re it for me, Tasha.”

 

She pulls his fingers from the dark velvet and opens it up, inhaling sharply at the ring waiting inside. It’s rose-gold, as bright and distinctive as the bride Clint intended it for. The diamond is a small teardrop with two tiny, fiery opals on either side. In a daze, she asks “Did James help you?”

 

“A little,” he admits, fidgeting. “He thought it should be bigger, but I figured you probably wouldn’t like that.”

 

“Not today, not tomorrow,” she murmurs. It takes her half a second to slip the ring over her finger and the fit is perfect because Clint knows the size of her hands like they were his own. “And it definitely won’t be ten years from now.”

 

Years after that day, she can close her eyes and see the letters perfectly.

 

_Our dear Natasha, love always._

 

It’s a memory she will cherish and hold close to her heart, because ten days later, James will fall from a cliff into the Austrian valley below. There is blood upon the alpine snows next to the Danube River, but without a body upon it, she and Clint refuse to declare their team leader dead.

 

It will be three months before they see him again, a shadow of himself, when the fall has turned into winter.

 

“James? James!”

 

_“Ya gotov otvetchat.”_


	9. together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flufffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff
> 
> Added another chapter because this was just getting too long.

December 2016

“I know it’s antique symbolism,” Clint says carefully, side-eyeing his fiancé. “So, I’m not saying you have to, but do you want someone to walk down with you?”

 

Natasha was not shocked that he was so interested in the marriage planning. Clint had already done this once before, but according him, his wedding to Sheila was “one step above shotgun, and one step below Vegas”. He was interested, he was involved, he was taking this with a level of seriousness she found both touching and a little unnerving.

 

He didn’t say ‘walk you down the aisle’ – as though she were a toddler who couldn’t find her way. Nor did he say ‘give you away’ – like she was a bottle of wine brought as a nice hostess gift. ‘Walk down with you’. A journey toward marriage she would walk alone unless she chose someone to go with her.

 

Natasha hesitates. She knows who she would like to walk with her. But it seems like asking too much, especially since James was Clint’s friend first. Finally, she says “…No.”

 

Clint’s brows rise up. “You…don’t really sound sure about that,” he says gently. “Which would be fine, but that’s not like you.”

 

She taps her fingers on the tabletop. “You’re already asking him to be your best man,” she says lowly. “It feels unfair when he’s already standing for you.”

 

Clint frowns. “You’re gonna ask Coulson? I mean, I’m sure he’d be really touched but that’s-”

 

“Coulson?” she repeats, bemused. “I thought you were asking James!”

 

He shook his head. “Buck cares about both of us, it didn’t feel fair to make him pick my side at the wedding when he’s really there for us both. And you two are my best friends, but it was Coulson who took a chance on me. Coulson was the one who trained me and vouched for me when no one else at SHIELD would’ve bothered. I think you should ask him.”

 

“Coulson?”

 

“No, Bucky,” Clint says, chuckling.

 

“You just said it’s not fair to make him pick a side!”

 

“No, I said it’s not fair to make him pick my side! You’re his devochka, Tasha. He has a soft spot and her name is Natalia. He would literally do anything for you. Please just ask him – I know what I said. But this would make him so happy.”

 

“He has another soft spot, you know,” Natasha retorts.

 

“Oh, yeah, you’re right. Daisy would love to be in the wedding…”

 

“No, you idiot! You, Clint! There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you either!”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah, oh.”

 

Clint is silent for a moment, lost in thought. “I want him to marry us.”

 

She stares at him. “You mean like the priest? Read us the vows?”

 

“Yeah. I don’t have a god, and you don’t either, so having a priest read the vows just feels…like a lie. I want…I want to see my two favorite people walk up that aisle and when we promise each other ‘til death do us part’, I want him there.”

 

Natasha leans over and squeezes his hand, kissing the corner of his mouth. “That sounds perfect to me.”

 

They also didn’t want to do the whole ‘girls on the bride’s side, boys on the grooms’ for the wedding party. Mostly because, for people like Bobbi, while Natasha didn’t actually object to having her in the party, it felt a little odd to have her stand by Natasha’s side.

 

Finally, they’d decided that May, Bucky, and Fitzsimmons would be on Natasha’s side and Coulson, Hunter, Bobbi, and Daisy would be on Clint’s.

 

“It’s gonna look strange having them all over the place though,” Clint says slowly, showing Natasha the color swatches Bobbi helped him pick out for the suits. “You wanted red for the bridesmaids – at least it will be even, I guess.” 

 

Bucky, walking past the dining room table with half a sandwich stuffed into his mouth, looks at their colors and the roughly worked out guest list and says, mouth still full of bread “Why don’t you just have Natasha’s people wearing red and yours wearing purple then?” 

 

“Oh, that’s actually a good idea.”

 

“Why am I on Natasha’s side, though?” he asks, glancing between them. “I don’t object, but I’ve known Clint longer and Daisy would look great in red.”

 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Natasha mutters, and Clint nudges her. “Well, because I wanted to ask you for a favor.”

 

“Of course,” Bucky says with a small smile. “Anything.”

 

Clint nudges her again with a tiny grin tugging at the corners of his mouth and Natasha resists the urge to smack him. Could he possibly be more unsubtle? “Well, firstly, Clint and I don’t really want a priest or a pastor.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Bucky agrees, a bit absently. “So, whose gonna do the official ‘Mr. and Mrs. Barton’ bits?”

 

“You,” Clint says bluntly, unable to stand it any longer. Natasha does not resist her urge this time. He whines dramatically. “Ow! Assault and battery!”

 

She looks at James carefully. “You don’t mind doing that for us, do you?”

 

“M-? Of-of course not!” His eyes shine suspiciously, and James has to clear his throat before speaking. “Shit, I’ll have to get certified for that…”

 

“That wasn’t really the favor,” Natasha says gently. James already looks shocked. Emotional and pleased, yes, but truly stunned. “I need someone to walk me down the aisle.”

 

She hadn’t realized at the time how true that statement was. Not ‘want’, ‘need’. She needed someone to stand beside her and hold her hand on the way up to that altar.

 

She isn’t entirely surprised when James frowns. “I thought May was doing that. She’s your lady of honor, right?”

 

“Matron,” Natasha corrects. “Matron of honor, and no, she and Coulson will make the toasts at the beginning of the reception.” This can’t possibly get any more nerve-wracking, so she finally just says “I want you to do it, James.”

 

There are several long moments where he just stares at her in surprise and she waits patiently for James to absorb her request. “…what?”

 

“Walking me down the aisle,” Natasha says gently. “I would like you to do that.”

 

James appears to shake his whole self before saying “Oh my god, yes, of course I will! _Devochka_ , of _course_ I’ll walk with you!”

 

She happily submits to a long bear-hug, smiling and rubbing at James’ back when he starts sniffing. Bah, a soft spot called Natalia! James Buchanan Barnes was entirely made of soft spots. She whispers “I want you with us every step, _medvezhonok_. Just like you always are.”

 

“Amen,” Clint agree fervently.

\---

“I’m gonna throw up,” Clint says, then scowls at Bucky. “No tie, I said no tie.”

 

“You might be able to pull off that effortless slob look, but we really need to make an effort,” he answers wryly, nodding over at Coulson and Hunter as he threads a scarlet necktie around his neck. Fitz, also well done up with a blood-red waist coat and tie beneath his gray jacket, nods back. “Natasha thinks it’s endearing in you, I doubt she has the same opinion for the rest of us.”

 

“I’m special,” he says smugly, caught in the familiar back and forth before he looks queasy again. “Jesus Christ, Bucky, I’m seriously gonna toss my cookies here.”

 

“You can’t be hungover, you only had a glass of wine and two beers,” Hunter teases. “Some bachelor party!”

 

Coulson snorts. “There are men who don’t see their marriage as a prison sentence, Hunter.”

 

“Not a prison,” Lance says cheerfully. “I like to think of it as a long-term joint psychiatric facility.”

 

“She’s gonna change her mind,” Clint gulps, sweating and nauseous in his good suit. “Oh god, she’s finally gonna come to her senses and call this off.”

 

Concerned, Bucky comes up behind him and squeezes Clint’s shoulders firmly. “After all the bullshit she’s put up with from us in the past five years, I really doubt this is gonna be the morning Natasha has decided she’s had enough. Especially since she had me up at five a.m. this morning to double check the flowers and fix the table arrangements.”

 

Clint does not seem to hear him. Clint is pale and gray in the weak winter sunlight coming from the stained-glass windows of the dressing room. He whispers “I’m a deaf idiot who can’t go two days without stumbling into a door. I don’t do the dishes and I never remember to get the mail or take out the trash. I never got past the fourth grade – I couldn’t even fuckin’ _read_ before I met Coulson. She’s gorgeous and she’s clever and she has more heart than any woman I’ve ever met. Why the hell would she want to be my wife?”

 

Silently, Bucky signals the others to back off a little and give them some room. He just needs a little less of the concerned hovering right now, and this is going to get more personal than Natasha would probably be okay with them knowing – even if Coulson’s uncanny abilities have guessed at probably half of it.

 

Gently, he steers Clint into a chair and then perches himself on the arm and says quietly “You and I have always had something more in common than our roguish good looks, you know. We’re our own worst critics. Models of healthy adult relationship blah-blah-blah,” he adds with a sigh.

 

“Natasha sees the guy who didn’t get past fourth grade and never does the dishes. But she knows that’s the same guy who spent eight months fighting for her best friend’s sanity. Who went to the therapist with her. This guy doesn’t turn off the hallway light because he knows she’s afraid of the dark. He’s just as happy with a night on the couch as he is with a night between the sheets as long as she’s there to scowl at the tv. He’s got real good eyes, see. He can look at her, and he sees all the beauty of her. But he also sees the pain and the anger and the fear, and he doesn’t pretend it’s not there or that it’ll go away. I’d say if she left that guy, she’d be a fool, and our Natalia is no fool.”

 

“Okay,” Clint gulps, nodding. “Okay. Okay. I’m-I’m a little better. Thanks.”

\---

The dress rehearsal for this two nights ago didn’t feel nearly this intimidating.

 

Natasha whispers “I’m think I’m going to throw up,” to him as they queue up in the correct order to walk. Naturally, Natasha is last as she’s the bride and Bucky is right there beside her. She let Clint pick the music as she selected the flowers – something he doesn’t know anything about – and the cake – because as long as it was cake, he would be happy. She realizes she doesn’t even know what their cue sounds like and the longer she stands here the more she believes they should’ve just gone to a courthouse with James, May, and Coulson as their witnesses.

 

For some reason, James chuckles as he squeezes her fingers, and says “Everything’s gonna be just fine, _devochka_. Just keep breathing. He’s waiting out there for you.”

 

Honestly the knowledge that Clint was on the other side of this terrifying procession was the only reason she was still on her feet in four-inch heels. (She needed to wear them for the ceremony – James was easily almost a full head taller than her without them and she felt silly walking next to him in her wedding grown, like a toddler playing dress-up. For the dancing she’d change into flats.)

 

Daisy, already a little weepy before they had even left the dressing area, was holding onto Natasha’s bouquet while Bobbi, the tallest woman in the room, adjusted the pearled headband in her hair so that the matching pearled veil would drape correctly. Fitzsimmons was making sure everyone else had their own tiger lily bouquets and boutonnieres either in hand or pinned on straight. “There,” Bobbi kissed her cheek. “You’re gonna knock ‘em dead.”

 

“Hopefully not literally,” Daisy adds, cracking a smile.

 

May, watching Coulson at the top of the aisle, sees him signal and instructs them all to get back in their proper places. Through the doorway, Natasha can hear the music start and realizes that she recognizes it – but it’s not something she would’ve imagined Clint picking. Bach’s _The Well-Tempered Clavier_ prelude number one, in C major. Daisy, who is technically James’s escort once the ceremony is over, is the only bridesmaid by herself, so she starts stepping out slowly down the aisle in time with the music.

 

Since Daisy went first and was the shortest, Natasha had Fitzsimmons follow her, with Lance and Bobbi right behind them. May, as the Matron of Honor, also went by herself, and since they did not have any ring-bearers or flower girls, James and Natasha finished off the procession.

 

God bless James Barnes. His large size meant that the crowd of people who turned to look at the bride coming in tended to see his bulk first and his strong hold on her left arm kept her upright and ensured that she did not stumble her first few steps down the aisle.

 

Clint can barely breath, waiting for Natasha and Bucky to step into the doorway and relieve every fear he’s had in the past forty-eight hours or so. When they do, he will swear it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

 

Bucky, clear-eyed and healthier than he’s looked in years by this time, is grinning so widely it has to hurt, his pale eyes seeming nearly silver against the gray and red of his suit. Natasha looks dipped in gold with her champagne silk wedding gown, glassy-eyed and smiling tremulously and the moment Clint sees her, his heart leaps up and his feet try to follow.

 

Coulson, smiling at Clint’s stunned joy, grabs his shoulder to hold him still and murmurs “Steady there, Barton. She’ll get here in good time.”

 

“Why did I pick such a fucking slow song?” Clint answers breathlessly.

 

He chuckles. “Natasha likes Bach?”

 

“Right, right.”

 

“Breathe, Barton.”

 

“Right, right.”

 

The procession takes their places but it’s really all a blur for him and then suddenly she is there, standing in front of him and holding his hand. Watery-eyed, Clint chokes out “Hey, beautiful.”

 

She threads her fingers through his, a single tear spilling over her cheek. Clint gently reaches up and wipes it off. Jemma already needs to hand Fitz and Daisy a pair of hankies and Bobbi’s chin is looking very wobbly. In the front row, Mack and Piper are already sobbing like babies. “Hey, handsome.”

 

James, who looks to be on the verge of bawling, whispers “Oh god, please don’t do this to me, I have to give a speech.”

 

Natasha squeezes Clint’s fingers. “We’re good. You can start.”

 

James takes a deep breath before checking his notes. “I made these up, you should be fucking proud,” he mutters, lips pursed into a trembling line. They both give shaky laughs. Natasha whispers back “We are, you doofus.”

 

He sniffs once and takes another breath. “Clint will start first. Repeat after me:”

 

Clint tries to follow as steadily as he can “I, Clinton Francis Barton, take you, Natalia Alianovna Romanova, to be my lawfully wedded wife. To have and to hold, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live. I promise to be faithful, patient, and kind. To laugh with you and cry with you, to honor, cherish, and keep you, all the rest of our lives.”

 

Clint makes it all the way to ‘honor, cherish, and keep you’ before he starts crying and the moment he cries, James’ hold on his own threatening tears spill over and he smiles and sobs to Clint “Barton, I hate you, man” and the assembled crowd laughs. May slips a hankie to James and Coulson slips the ring into Clint’s hand, and after a moment of getting himself put back to together, James continues. “With this ring, I give you my heart, to love and keep with you.”

 

Natasha gives one short sob and covers her mouth before she holds out her hand, her left hand shaking as Clint places the ring on her finger.

 

She is struggling to breath, clenching Clint’s hand, when James says “Alright, _devochka_ , repeat after me:”

 

“I, Natalia Alianovna Romanova, take you, Clinton Francis Barton, to be my lawfully wedded husband. To have and to hold, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live. I promise to be faithful, patient, and wise. To laugh with you and cry with you, to honor, cherish, and keep you, all the rest of our lives.” May gently places the gold band in Natasha’s hand as she repeats “With this ring, I give you-” Her voice breaks and she has to try again, sniffing hard “I give you my heart, to love and keep with you.”

 

They’re both crying, and they don’t bother waiting for James to give the go-ahead to kiss each other, smiling against each other’s lips. James, also laughing and crying, says “I’m glad you’re both so eager to keep those vows. This is the place I would normally say ‘kiss the bride’.” and the crowd laughs again, half of them also openly weeping. He wipes his eyes a final time before announcing “Through the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Ladies and gentlemen, I am so very honored to present to you: Mister and Missus Clint and Natasha Barton.”

 

The assembled crowd, mostly colleagues and acquaintances from SHIELD they’d acquired over the years, stands and cheers. In the back row, even dire old Director Fury and Deputy Hill stand up and clap silently.

 

Natasha bursts into a fresh round of tears as the wedding party begins their retreat back down the aisle to the closing song and she realizes that’s not Elton John singing, it’s her husband. With his arm around her, Clint leans down and kisses her ear, murmuring “ _How wonderful life is, while you’re in the world_ …” and their friends cheer and whistle as she stops in the middle of the aisle to kiss him again. His cheeks are so pink and his smile so wide, she decides to do it a third time.

\---

Thursday, December 28th, 2017

“Is he coming to eat?” She hardly needs to ask – the look on Clint’s face tells Natasha everything she needs to know.

 

James has been hiding in his room since they got back from seeing Steve in the hospital, since he came back to himself after his first episode in months. Quietly, Clint serves himself and sits across from her at the table, unusually subdued. “Hasn’t left his bed since we got home.”

 

Like Clint, Natasha doesn’t have to say anything – her unhappiness is a tangible presence in the room and he feels it the whole night. He isn’t surprised when he comes out of the shower and walks into their room to find that she isn’t there.

 

James is the perfect example of the difference between the way someone cries when they’re happy versus someone who cries when they’re upset. James had no problem crying when he was really happy about something – he was a mess and he made no apologies about it.

 

But when he was upset, he cried like someone trying to hide. Silently and in the dark, without making any noise.

 

Natasha closes the door a little louder than she normally would and slides into the bed behind him, arms closing around his middle. He’s holding himself perfectly still, face pressed to the pillow and breathing perfectly controlled, and that’s how she knows that he’s crying. She rubs gently on his sternum, trying to get him to the release the breaths she knows he’s holding in.

 

“I didn’t even know him,” he mutters bitterly. “Not really.”

 

She rests her cheek against his shoulder. “That’s not your fault.”

 

She was hoping that he would be inclined to talk about it once he’s in her presence but once he speaks, everything that comes out of his mouth is terrible. James turns his head into the pillow and whispers “What’s the matter with me, Natalia? What’s so wrong with me that people look at me and see-”

 

He cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to. Natasha know what he’s asking. _Why do people look at me and see something they can use? See a puppet for them to string along?_

 

She knows that feeling well, though it hasn’t visited her in a while. Natasha tightens her hold around James’ middle. “It isn’t what’s wrong with you, James. It’s what wrong with the world.” Thinking of Clint, she says “You just have to find the one exception out there.”

 

He covers her hand with his own and says dully “I’m a one-armed cyborg who can’t talk to anybody but a handful of people close to me, and I might turn into a dead-eyed sleeper agent at any moment, Natalia. I don’t think there are any exceptions waiting for me.”

 

“But you’re brave,” she says thickly, talking into his wounded shoulder. “And you’re kind. Strong. Patient. Loyal. Affectionate. As far as I’m concerned, I married the best man on the earth and the second best walked me down the aisle to him.”

 

A shadow from the doorway falls over the bed and Clint murmurs “Are we having a sleepover?” and crawls in on James’ other side. He brings his hand up and begins wiping at his face with the sleeve of his pajamas. Gently he scratches at first James’ scalp and then Natasha’s. “Shall we braid each other’s hair and talk about cute boys?” Clint voice, pitched to soothe and comfort, was a cool cotton sheet on sore nerves. “We’ll eat mini-marshmallows, those terrible stale chewy ones you like, and make hot chocolate the real way, with milk and whipped cream.”

 

James laughs and then sobs, and Clint makes a sad sound and moves closer, until he is hugging James from the front and Natasha hugs him from behind.

 

That night, Natasha would’ve happily broken every bone in Steve Rogers’ body, but it’s also Natasha who asks James if he loves him and tells him to go to him.

 

Steve had looked into the eyes of the Winter Soldier and seen all that he could use, all that power he could possess and take for his own, and Steve, despite being entirely justified in asking Zima to, if not kill for him, then to protect him or at least assist him, had instead said “ _Good luck, sweetheart. Now go find your family.”_

 

Steve Rogers wasn’t the best of men, but Natasha was beginning to consider that there was a spot for him in third place.


	10. forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fluffiest of the fluffy fucking fluff fluff fluff.

September 2020

Natasha always wanted kids.

 

She didn’t _have_ any kids, but that wasn’t exactly because she chose not to.

 

As a young girl, it was sort of a vague assumption that one day it would just happen inevitably, and as she was growing up she ignored the idea in favor of everyday survival. Later it was because her lifestyle in SHIELD didn’t allow for the addition of a dependent and Natasha wasn’t going to raise a son or daughter whose closest parental role models could die any day.

 

When Delta was officially retired, she and Clint talked about having children, but in the end decided not to. James was hypersensitive about the way he looked and acted at that point and the moment the Bartons told him they were having a baby, he would be out that door. James would never permit himself to spend time with an infant, he would be too concerned with the idea of accidentally hurting them or spacing out at a critical moment.

 

A few months before James’ first real conversation with Steve, he was starting to do a whole lot better and they’d talked about it again before Natasha realized it was never going to happen. Giving birth would mean that a stranger would have to touch her, examine her. The birthing room would essentially be a room full of people looking at her genitals and Clint did not want her suffering through that for an as yet non-existent child and Natasha couldn’t imagine doing it without a panic attack or several.

 

Clint jokingly (or not) offered to become a midwife if the little stick ever showed two pink lines instead of one but it never happened.

 

James and Steve talked about adopting some, eventually but in the same vague way she thought about it as a child – all four of them still had time and the boys were newlyweds, still grinning and pink-cheeked in the morning, nearly as nauseating at the day they met.

 

Tony said he needed help with this event though and they were all pretty good with kids – even better, every one of them was an expert in at least three languages beyond English. Hell, Clint was the only one among them who’d spoken English as a first language. Sarah Rogers spoke to Steve in Gaelic at home until he was three and she realized no kindergarten in Brooklyn would take a child whose only knowledge of English was ‘that’, ‘up’, ‘more’, and ‘no!’.

 

Stark Industries was known for its philanthropy long before Tony took over as the head of the company, but Tony was better known for action rather than throwing money at things. During this event it was necessary to do both.

 

Tony did feel a little guilty about bringing them: he’d sort of stacked the decks during the event. When the new U.S. Ambassador to the U.N., a close friend of Peggy’s cousin, had asked him and Pepper to visit, he’d met many of the children Ambassador Pinkerton was holding in the facility. They were all orphans, you see, they were being kept there because either in the course of fleeing their country or sometime before that, they had all lost their parents. They had no families to go home to, either in America or whatever countries they came from.

 

Tony ensured that two children in particular were there. Yelena was from Latveria and her English wasn’t very good yet, but she’d told her handler that her favorite book was the Avengers, which would make Steve melt into a pile of goo. Until he and Bucky could improve her English, Yelena’s primary language was Russian, which Buckaroo wouldn’t have a problem with and Steve at least knew enough by now to get by.

 

Emir was a little boy from Damascus, very young and very sweet, and Tony was pretty sure Clint and Natasha would not be able to resist him. Of course, he’d likely witnessed many horrors in Syria, but he was young enough to be able to overcome those memories, and the Bartons were the kind of people who believed in good therapists and good caretakers.  

 

But this is where Tony’s plan goes haywire because you never really know, when people interact with each other, what is going to happen.

 

“So, what are we doing here again?” Clint says blearily. Tragically, Steve would not allow him to consume the coffee intravenously and Natasha had seconded that.

 

“Translating,” Natasha says immediately, glancing at the GPS between them.

 

Bucky nods. “We’re providing free translation at Tony’s big-ass party so that people will grow a heart and give orphan refugees a home. Peggy is meeting us there – she had a conference thingy, but she promised Tony she would come.”

 

Steve snorts but declines to comment. He had rough cartoon sketches for the littler kids in his lap. He wasn’t great with really little kids – mostly because he never had much of a reason to be near them – but he wasn’t quite as nervous about this as Natasha.

 

They all had a lot of fun that day. Mostly, they did a lot of translating for the smaller children – especially the four through seven-year-old kids. They were young enough to either not really understand the horror of their situation or to have been actively sheltered from it as much as possible and they were very chatty. And people wanted them more. The older a child got, the less likely it was that someone would want them.

 

But to be honest, all four of them found that their eyes were mostly drawn away to the other side of the room, where the older kids were. A blonde girl was staring over at them, over at Natasha, Clint realized. Eyes watching Natasha as she chewed nervously on her fingernails and played with a homemade-looking bracelet around her wrist. “Hey,” he murmurs during a break, nudging his wife a little and smiling at the little girl. “You’ve got an admirer, I think.”

 

The tiny girl notices Clint smiling at her and quickly looks away again.

 

It was possible, Natasha thought, that she reminded the girl of someone she’d loved before. A mother, an aunt, maybe a sister. She glances at the number on her table – number eight – and then finds her name on the clipboard and laughs softly.

 

 **Yelena Belova**  
Age Eight  
Latveria  
Primary: Russian (excellent)  
English – poor to fair

**_Yelena is a bright and clever child, although very shy. Her favorite food is sbiten made very sweet. She loves to read and has been improving her English with books. Her favorite is The Avengers. She enjoys school, but her best subjects are math and geography._ **

 

Slowly approaching the table, Natasha can see her bracelet and realizes why Yelena has been staring at her so intently. The homemade jewelry has the iconic black-and-red hourglass insignia of Steve’s Black Widow. “Is she your favorite?” she asks while pointing to the bracelet, slowing down her speech a little, and then repeating for her: _“Ona tvoya lyubimara?”_

 

Timid, Yelena continues to bite her fingernails, but she nods and says quietly “ _Ty pokhozh nan eye.”_

_You look like her._

She has a tooth missing in the bottom row and it makes her lisp rather severely. Clint is immediately charmed by her – after all, this child is clearly smart enough to recognize greatness. He comes to Natasha’s other side. _“What if I told you that actually_ was _her?”_

_“Really?”_ Yelena asks, wide-eyed, staring between Clint and Natasha. The woman has vivid scarlet hair just like the Widow does, and her eyes are bright green, large and sparkling and she’s easily the most beautiful woman Yelena has ever seen. The man beside her was not the most handsome, but she likes his crooked smile and his laughing eyes.

 

For any other person, it may have taken a little more convincing, but Yelena had no trouble believing that this glamorous redhead really is the Black Widow. Her whole face lights up and that is the moment Clint and Natasha Barton both become hopelessly smitten with this child, although neither of them quite knew it yet. “ _Can you really beat up bad guys while tied to a chair?”_

\---

Steve has noticed a slightly more troubling situation on that side of the room. The two of them look like siblings: they have the same dark hair and the same dark, serious eyes. The girl gazes off into nothing and the boy, very close to her in age, first speaks to her in a low voice, quiet and urgent, and then does his best to hide her without actually moving her. He moves his chair, sits in front of her at an angle that shields her from the rest of the room, glancing nervously around him.

 

By this time, Steve is all too familiar with what a dissociative episode looks like – the sister is having one right now, and the brother, probably afraid that someone on staff will take her away and separate them, has been desperately trying to hide her illness. Steve thinks ‘has been’ because this is clearly not the first time this has happened to her. He probably doesn’t even understand what’s wrong with her.

 

Their table is number three and Steve quickly glances down at his clipboard for their info sheet.

 

 **Istvan and Ionela (John and Jane?) Breban**  
Twins – Age Eleven  
Sokovia  
Primary language: unknown  
Hungarian – fair (both)  
English – poor (Ionela), very poor (Istvan)

**_Istvan and Ionela have experienced a lot of trauma related to the widespread violence in their country and as a result may do better in separate households, provided that they have regular contact with each other._ **

 

Steve snorts. He was in the system himself and he knows exactly how to translate those few bare comments. It actually says: ‘too fucked up and full of issues for a single family to take on both of them, but we’ve fed them a bunch of bullshit about staying together’. Successful adoption rates deceased dramatically the older a child got, especially if they were out of primary school. The twins were nearly ready for middle school and making their odds even worse, there were two of them and at least one clearly had very serious mental health challenges.

 

Steve frowns at the paper, trying to not show the way his heart aches. The boy doesn’t look like he’d be super thrilled about ‘separate households with regular contact’. Nudging his husband, he passes it over to Bucky and nods at the subjects of his interest. He feels a pang, thinking of another pair of fraternal twins from Sokovia. He’d only ever taken on three students in all eleven years of his former career, and two of them were the Maximoffs. As with his mother’s death, it had taken awhile to process Pietro’s loss and Steve was entirely certain dealing with it had led to the final decision to quit.

 

He hasn’t regretted it for a day.

 

Beside him, Bucky snorts hard and drops the clipboard, saying “Fucking John and Jane. They should fire their translator.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Jane is kind of close, but Ionela, if I were forced to call her something more ‘American’,” Bucky says with a sneer “Janelle or even Johanna would be closer. I’m assuming that the translator believed ‘Istvan’ was the same thing as ‘Ivan’, which _would_ be John if we were talking about Russian, but we aren’t, and it’s Hungarian, so it’s actually….hm, Steven.”

 

Steve laughs. “Steve and Johanna.” He shakes his head. “I think I prefer Istvan and Ionela to be honest.”

 

“They probably do, too,” Bucky agrees. “I wonder if they actually have a translator for Romanian and Serbian in the center.”

 

Steve glances over at his husband. “I thought the national language in Sokovia was Hungarian? Though…the twins spoke…Serbian, I believe?”

 

“Most people assume that because the capital and the next-largest city are both near the border of Hungary – most people in the country do speak it primarily, but depending on where they lived, the language in the household might’ve been Romanian or Serbian. I’m hoping their family spoke Romanian – their surname is, and so is Ionela’s name. Bobbi called my Hungarian ‘laughably bad’, and frankly my Serbian isn’t much better.”

 

“Talk to him, try to distract him a little – I wanna see how severe this is and I can’t get close to her if he’s worried that I’ll take her away.”

 

Bucky squeezes Steve’s shoulder before cautiously approaching the brother. _“Pot sa vorbesc cu tine, Istvan?”_

_Can I talk to you, Istvan?_

 

The boy’s dark eyes go wide, probably amazed to find that he finally understands the person talking to him. He gulps. “ _Y-yes, sir.”_

 

_“My name is Bucky. You can just call me Bucky or Iacob if you’re more comfortable with that. You don’t have to be afraid, Istvan, you’re not in trouble for anything. I just wanted to ask some questions to help the people take care of you better.”_

 

Istvan looks angry. “ _The lady keeps giving me pills but they don’t do anything but make me tired and they won’t let us share a room_!”

 

“ _I can talk to them about the medication_ ,” Bucky says seriously, trying his best to convey that he is taking Istvan’s concerns seriously. “ _Why do you want to share the room with Ionela?”_

 

“ _She-she doesn’t sleep without me there,”_ Istvan confides nervously. “ _She won’t go to sleep and then they try to give her this like…liquid thing. This clear liquid, they put it in her milk, but it makes the nightmares worse.”_ He gulps again, looking up at the man with frozen eyes. The stranger is big and scary looking and maybe if Bucky talks to their caretakers, people will actually listen. Nobody really listens to him and Ionela. “ _You’ll tell them? Promise?”_

_“Yes, Istvan, I promise.”_ Bucky would have a hard time refusing those big brown doe eyes even if he didn’t identify so strongly with Istvan and Ionela’s situation. The people here aren’t mistreating the twins, exactly – he does believe that the embassy’s people are trying their best – but they’re scared, and they don’t understand what’s happening around them and why and there apparently isn’t anyone around here who speaks their language. “ _I’m not sure the medicine is helping you, so I’ll talk to one of the doctors.”_

 

Istvan appears to be ready to open up more, but pauses, staring off to Bucky’s left side and for a moment, he assumes that Istvan has become frightened by his prosthetic, then he hears Steve’s hushed murmuring from that direction and turns slightly to glance over his shoulder.

 

“…blacks and bays and dapple-greys…”

 

Steve is kneeling in front of Ionela, holding one of her small hands in his. Her golden skin looks especially brown next to his Irish-fair complexion. He rubs his callouses gently over her little palms, lets her feel the baby-soft texture of the cashmere sweater Bucky bought him last Christmas. Her grip flinches and twitches as Steve continues humming “Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry, go to sleep, little baby…”

 

Ionela fidgets, stirring slightly before she grabs hold of his sleeve. She’s still not entirely present, but she’s hanging onto Steve like the world will end if he leaves her. Bucky absolutely agrees with her assessment. Clever girl.

 

 _“Istvan,”_ he says quietly. “ _Ionela leaves herself behind sometimes, doesn’t she_?”

 

Istvan is chewing furiously at his own sweater sleeve, blinking back tears. He croaks “ _I try to make her stop but I just can’t! I don’t know what I’m doing wrong!”_

 

“ _You aren’t doing anything wrong, Fane_ ,” Bucky says gently, tenderness welling to giving Istvan a nickname that would sound more familiar to him. _“This isn’t your fault and it isn’t her fault either. Do you know when this started happening?”_

 

He stuffs more of the sleeve into his mouth and shakes his head frantically, hiding both of his hands as he tries to make himself smaller in the chair. Like he thinks maybe Bucky will hit him. He’s obviously lying, but Bucky isn’t going to demand answers from a traumatized child.

 

Steve sings every nursery song he remembers his mother using on him, English and Gaelic alike. Assisting someone out of an episode often means taking that person out of wherever their mind has gone and back into the present. Steve’s pretty certain Ionela wouldn’t have heard any of these and the cashmere provides a sensation in the present that is without pain.

 

As she begins to shift and hold tight, he smiles and rubs her hands in his. “…and red is the rose, in yonder garden grows…”

 

Sleepily, Ionela looks into his face. She is and is not back to herself, swaying with exhaustion in her seat. She and Istvan shouldn’t be here today, they are clearly too fragile for such a large audience, but every day from now Steve will be glad that they were. Thready and weak, she whispers “ _Esti un inger_?”

 

Bucky laughs quietly. “She wants to know if you’re an angel.” Slowly and gently so as not to startle her anymore, Bucky reaches out to tuck back some of the dark wild strands hanging in front of her face. “ _El este ingerul meu, puisor.”_

_He is my angel, ducky._

 

Istvan is staring between Bucky and Steve, gray and frightened looking. He wonders if the boy is disgusted, having probably realized what Bucky meant. Hopefully, that is an attitude he will be able to grow out of. Tapping his temple, Bucky tells Istvan _“I leave myself, too, sometimes. Steve helps me with that. Maybe we can show you how.”_

 

Timidly, still trying to eat his cuffs, Istvan nods.

\---

“I saw you speaking with the twins,” Pepper says quietly. Bucky has made a stop at the restroom and Steve wants to see if Pepper knows who they should talk to about the medications they’re being given. “I’m told they can be a bit of a handful, but you look like you were doing alright.”

 

Steve shrugs a little. “If they have the correct translator and they actually feel like someone is really listening to them, they're okay. Scared, but okay. The staff didn’t know their primary language and didn’t have an appropriate translator for them. Who would I talk to about their medical care? I have a sneaking suspicion that-”

 

“Sorry,” a pleasant male baritone says behind him. “You had questions about the Brebans? I’m the onsite doctor today. Doctor Stephen Strange. Pleasure to meet you-?”

 

Steve turns and shakes the man’s hand. “Uh, also Steve. Steve Barnes. Istvan told me you give him pills – they’re for ADHD, correct? – but he says they don’t do anything but make him feel tired. He also says that you guys are putting something in Ionela’s milk? I assume that’s a brand of antipsychotic I’m familiar with, but he says it’s making her nightmares worse.”

 

Strange huffs with relief. “Oh, thank god, they finally found a better interpreter. The pills are Adderall, that’s correct. Istvan can get quite squirrelly. Frankly, I don’t think he’d need it at all if he was allowed a little more time outside, but the staff are overworked as it is and Istvan doesn’t like to leave Ionela by herself.”

 

Steve nods. That was generally what he expected. “Would you consider lowering the dose a little? He doesn’t enjoy feeling sleepy all the time.”

 

“That’s done easily enough,” Strange agrees, and then looks concerned. “I wish there were more I could do for Ionela. We’ve been trying to find something that helps her calm down, but there are some things it would be better to forget. Unfortunately, I can’t help her do that anymore than I can make time go backwards.”

 

“What if…” He bites his lip. “Ah, would it be possible for me to apply to foster them?”

 

He shouldn’t even be asking this – he and Bucky haven’t seriously been talking about kids, beyond agreeing that they’d both like some eventually. But Steve doesn’t feel good about leaving the Brebans here.

 

“That would not be an easy task to undertake, Mr. Barnes. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but…” He grimaces and lowers his voice. “Istvan and Ionela were in Cozima when the governor ordered the city bombed and the experience has…stayed with them. Additionally, I believe…” he hesitates, sighs and says “I believe that Ionela has killed someone.”

 

Steve gapes, blinks, and tries to look like he’s calmly internalizing this. “Uh…what?”

 

“Understand, I don’t have any way of proving this. He doesn’t like to talk about this, but at their last permanent home, Istvan had a crush on one of the neighborhood boys and kissed him. The boy’s uncle saw this and attacked him. From what I gather, Ionela panicked, stole the uncle’s gun and shot him. She says that she and Istvan left and the man was taken to hospital, but I’m fairly certain she killed him.”

 

Oh, Jesus. No wonder Istvan looked so frightened at Bucky openly giving Steve pet names – and poor Ionela!

 

They have to leave at eight o’clock that night. All of the children have had a long day and it’s time for them to get ready for bed.

 

Clint has already been bouncing around showing Natasha the paperwork to foster Yelena and Natasha is trying to manage her own excitement. Yelena…doesn’t look like she believes them when they say they are coming back for her. But she smiles and waves goodbye and doesn’t cry until they walk out the door. When they return tomorrow, she will cry twice as hard.

 

Bucky and Steve stare at each other outside the conference room before Bucky finally breaks and says, “How mad are you gonna be if I say I want them to come home with us?”

 

“Oh, thank god!” Steve bursts out, relieved. Bucky stares at him, confused. “Buck, there’s no goddamn way we’re leaving them here!”

 

“Hm, we’re probably gonna have to get Istvan over that touch of homophobia, though,” Bucky says, a little dejected.

 

“What? Oh. Oh, god, no,” Steve shakes his head and cringes. “No, that’s not his problem. He freaked out when you started getting lovey-dovey, right? No, their doc says Istvan got the shit kicked out of him by a grown man for kissing another boy and Ionela tried to defend him, so she took the guy’s gun and shot him. She wouldn’t say, but Strange is pretty sure she killed him.”

 

Bucky looks heartbroken. “That’s so fuckin’ rough, man. God, now I wanna go back in there and give the little guy a hug. Jesus…”

 

He does. He actually breaks off from the conversation, stomps back into the room, and crouches near the twins, whispering something to both of them. “ _I have to leave now. It’s time for you guys to go to bed. May I have a hug, please?”_

 

He is surprised when Ionela immediately grabs him but kisses her temple and rubs her back when he realizes she’s trembling slightly. Hesitantly, Istvan comes and tucks himself under Bucky’s other arm, the one made of metal. He holds them both close and a small sniffle comes from the boy. “ _Don’t give up, Fane_ ,” he whispers. “ _We’re coming back to see you tomorrow morning_.”

 

He isn’t going to promise that they’ll take them home. They may not even be approved to foster them. Steve will understand – either way they can argue this out when he isn’t being hugged by a pair of teary eleven-year-olds.

 

“ _Will you bring back your angel_?” Ionela asks, still clinging to Bucky’s jacket.

 

“ _Do you wanna say goodbye to him, too_?”

 

She gives a tiny nod and Bucky searches for Steve’s figure in the doorway, spots him watching anxiously and gestures for him to come forward. “I promised we’d come back tomorrow morning.” He’s relieved to see that Steve’s worried face immediately brightens rather than him getting angry. “But Ionela wanted you to say goodbye first.”

 

Bucky can see the flash of surprise over Steve’s face before it softens to genuine happiness. "Of course."

 

On the car ride home, it’s still there as he cuddles up to Bucky in the back. He nuzzles Bucky’s neck, their hands interlaced, and says “We must be out of our minds, _a ghra geal_.”

 

In her lap, Natasha is holding Yelena’s picture like a talisman. Clint can see the small shadow of his wife in that little girl. He can see a tiny piece of that little girl in his wife.

 

He thinks of a tiny ginger-haired ballerina in her pointed shoes, practicing for hours inside a hollow house, without the benefit of playing in the mud on rainy days or playing in the snow when it’s cold. Without bedtime stories or lullabies or cuddling on the sofas. Of that little girl laying in her bed, shaking with fear every single night for _years_ in the dark, empty silence.

 

He couldn’t save that girl. He couldn’t save his wife from the cold silence in which she lived out her whole childhood.

 

But this sweet blonde baby with her lisp and her superhero pose, he can save her. And Yelena will absolutely know mud pies and snowmen and lullabies. Cuddling, bad dad jokes, bedtime stories, the whole works. It’s been six hours, but Clint had his heart set on her from the moment her eyes lit up at the sight of Natasha.

 

He’d been expecting a fight, but past her nearly crippling shyness, Yelena was so bright and so kind. Clint was certain you’d have to try hard not to fall in love. Natasha was already becoming a lioness for Yelena – the assistant at the event hadn’t wanted to give them foster documents as the Bartons were ‘mere volunteers’ and she’d bullied the man into providing the papers on the double.

 

He grins at Steve and Bucky through the overhead mirror. Clint’s seen the photographs clipped to their papers and he knows that look on Bucky’s face. Mama Bear has gathered some more cubs. “I know. Isn’t it _great_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Especially observant readers may note that Istvan and Ionela are loosely based upon the characters of Jean-Paul (Northstar) and Jeanne-Marie (Aurora) who were actually French-Canadian. However, canonically Aurora does have (the comic science version of) D.I.D. and Northstar was one of the first gay superheroes - his marriage was featured in an issue of X-Men.


End file.
